?. 


v 


BELLA 


"  '  Please  '  " 


BY 


EDWARD    CHARLES    BOOTH 

AUTHOR    OF 
"THE   POST  GIRL,"    "THE    DOCTOR'S   LASS,"   ETC. 


ILLUSTRATED 


NEW    YORK 

D.    APPLETON     AND     COMPANY 
1912 


COPYRIGHT,  1912,  BY 
D.  APPLETON  AND  COMPANY 


Published  August,  191S 


TO    THE     MEMORY    OF 

MY    MOTHER 

WHO    KNEW    AND     LOVED 
THE    LITTLE    BELLA 


2134437   . 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS 


FACING 
PAGE 

; Please '  " .Frontispiece 


1  Let  me  pour  it  out  for  you  '  " 40 

'This    is    the   little  friend   you   have   read   so 

much  about '  " 264 

He  heard  Mrs.  Dysart  exclaim:  'Bella!'  " 326 


BELLA 


THE  Poet  lay  out  on  the  sands  with  head  on  elbow, 
attentive  to  the  sea;  the  girl's  shadow  fell  over 
him  softly  from  behind.  For  awhile  he  did  not  raise 
his  eyes,  having  already  said :  "  No,  thank  you,"  to  a 
photographer  with  stained  fingers,  and  a  girl  tugging 
a  great  basket  of  pears.  He  studied,  not  without 
amusement,  the  irresolute  shadow  cast  diagonally  across 
him;  noted  its  sex,  divined  the  favor  difficult  of  formu- 
lation, and  smiled  at  the  silent  combat  between  timid- 
ity and  inertness.  Once,  indeed,  he  deemed  the  conflict 
terminated  in  defeat,  for  the  shadow  shortened,  and  he 
was  making  ready  in  mind  to  turn  on  elbow  after  its 
withdrawal  to  see  with  what  manner  of  shade  his  im- 
mobility had  been  doing  battle,  when  he  was  apos- 
trophized with  a  trepid  "  Please !  " 

Thereat,  without  delay,  he  turned,  for  the  soft  tim- 
idity of  the  word  appealed  to  his  chivalrous  parts,  and 
his  fibers  responded  to  an  unmistakable  music  in  the 
voice,  that  had  nothing  of  the  metallic  deprecation  of 
the  professional  supplicant.  The  word  was  pitched  low, 
as  if  almost  its  diffidence  had  the  hope  not  to  be  heard; 
a  word  rehearsed  in  trial  of  courage  rather  than  proof 
of  it.  Without  response,  he  knew,  the  appeal  would 
never  be  repeated,  and  his  mirth  was  part  remorseful 
to  think  it  had  been  indulged  on  so  meek  a  petitioner. 

1 


2  BELLA 

He  was  sorrier  still  when  he  met  the  gray  eyes  that 
reposed  their  sober  glance  upon  his  own,  and  saw  the 
loose  volume  of  unribboned  hair  that  fell  upon  the 
girl's  shoulder  like  sunlit  water  poured  solidly  from 
a  pail.  It  was  cut  square  in  front,  a  deep  flat  band 
that  ruled  off  nearly  all  her  forehead  except  a  thin 
divisional  width  to  define  the  level  brows  beneath.  Her 
face  was  partly  shaded  by  a  big  sun  hat  of  brown  straw 
trimmed  with  a  pretty  rose  kerchief,  that  had  slid  back- 
ward over  her  glossy  hair,  and  was  held  in  vertical  sus- 
pension by  a  narrow  white  band  passed  beneath  her 
chin  impressing  itself  to  extinction  in  the  softness  of 
her  throat.  She  wore  a  pleated  serge  frock  of  navy 
blue;  a  white  flannel  tunic  with  gilt  buttons;  black 
stockings  and  white  canvas  sand  shoes,  and  in  her  right 
hand  she  held  a  ball  of  stitched  leather  and  sawdust 
attached  to  her  middle  finger  by  half  a  yard  of  elastic. 
The  word  whose  passage  had  divided  her  lips  had  left 
them  still  apart,  expectant  yet  visibly  in  awe  of  their 
own  temerity;  slender  lips  through  which  the  Poet 
discerned  the  gleam  of  very  small  and  very  white  and 
level  teeth  beyond.  As  he  raised  himself  on  his  hand 
a  tremor  of  humility  passed  through 'the  lips  again,  and 
the  girl  repeated  her  prefatory  "  Please,"  mingled  with 
a  hurried  request  for  his  pardon.  She  had  not  meant 
to  disturb  him.  But  was  he  going  to  stay  there  long? 
Was  he?  Well,  then  ...  if  he  really  was,  might  she 
leave  her  shoes  and  stockings  with  him  until  he  went 
away?  Might  she?  Would  he  mind  very  much? 

'  Not  a  bit.  I  will  take  care  of  them  for  you  with 
pleasure,"  he  said.  It  did  not  even  occur  to  him  to  be 
amused  at  the  nature  of  the  question,  at  the  time,  for 
the  girl's  gray  eyes  and  grave  lips  seemed  to  naturalize 
the  appeal  and  make  it  very  legitimate  and  sober.  He 
only  felt  the  flattery  of  being  selected  for  her  pur- 


BELLA  3 

pose,  and  for  the  rest  admired  the  unaffected  manner 
in  which  she  tended  the  request.  And  though  on  his 
elbow  he  still  continued  to  regard  her,  she  seated  her- 
self on  the  sand  just  where  she  had  addressed  him  and 
proceeded  without  the  least  delay  or  subterfuge  to  draw 
off  her  stockings,  tugging  them  over  each  obstinate 
round  heel  in  turn;  rolling  each  into  its  respective  shoe 
and  completing  their  union  with  a  garter.  After  which 
she  insinuated  the  shoes  and  stockings  sufficiently  near 
to  the  Poet's  elbow  to  bear  a  semblance  of  owning  his 
protection;  gave  him  her  thanks  again;  smiled  a  gen- 
erous smile  of  solemn  good  faith,  and  left  him,  tracing 
small  irresolute  footprints  toward  the  sea. 

At  the  twelfth  footprint  she  hesitated,  and  came 
back  to  the  Poet,  her  eyes  and  lips  filled  with  the  spirit 
of  apology  and  meekness.  She  was  sorry  to  trouble 
him  again  so  soon.  But  her  watch  had  stopped.  Look ! 
She  held  it  out  corroboratively  on  her  wrist.  And 
would  he  have  the  least  objection  to  telling  her  the 
time? 

The  Poet  smiled  his  reassuring  best,  and  told  her: 
"  Not  at  all."  He  was  sensible  that  the  moment  he 
withdrew  his  gaze  to  note  the  dial,  the  girl's  eyes,  de- 
spite their  meekness,  evinced  wonderful  alacrity  in  tak- 
ing stock  of  him.  By  the  time  he  met  her  gaze  again 
he  was  aware  she  had  surveyed  the  whole  promontory 
of  his  person  from  head  to  foot,  for  though  her  eye 
was  ready  to  receive  his  own,  it  had  the  quickened 
and  conscious  look  of  a  traveler  but  late  returned;  a 
traveler,  the  Poet  aspired  to  think,  not  altogether  dis- 
couraged with  the  features  of  this  new  territory,  and 
by  disposition  friendly. 

And  this  was  not  surprising,  for  the  Poet  had  little 
affinity  with  the  humorist's  portrayal  of  his  species. 
True,  his  dark  brown  hair,  though  scrupulously  brushed, 


4  BELLA 

hinted  in  the  most  delicate  and  indefinable  manner  at 
artistic  negligence,  as  if  its  natural  bias  were  to  locks 
and  tendrils,  but  the  tendency  obeyed  a  wise  and  metri- 
cal restraint  like  the  Poet's  own  verse.    And  the  Poet's 
face,  smooth  and  beardless  and  boyish,  was  subtly  dis- 
tinguishable from  the  countenance  of  the  mere  follower 
of  fashion  by  a  sober  thoughtfulness  that  seemed  to 
have  its  seat  in  chief  upon  the  Poet's  slightly  contracted 
lashes.    For  his  eye  was  one  of  those  so-called  musical 
eyes  that  appear  never  to  focus  outward  things  to  their 
sharpest   material    definition,   but   sensed   them    rather 
through  a  spiritual  veil  of  comprehension,  as  though 
they  had  voices  for  him,  too,  and  he  listened  and  could 
hear  them.    Until  he  smiled  the  dark  lashes  made  a  sort 
of  screen  to  the  brown  eyes,  so  that  thought  sat  dimly 
ensconced  in  a  tabernacle,  and  not  quite  face  to  face 
with  the  outer  world.     But  at  a  smile — and  when  he 
spoke  his  smile  lit  up  his  speech  to  a  fine  degree  of 
animation — the  brown   eyes    showed   in    full:    orbs   of 
quick  perception  and  bright  response,  swimming  in  an 
element  of  gladness  quite  unlike  the  pungent  quality 
that  sharpens  the  features  of  your  man  of   laughter, 
though  laughter  was  in  truth  twin-brother  to  his  soul 
and  plucked  at  all  times  irresponsibly  on  the  poetic  lyre 
when  its  strings  were  idle.    And  then,  there  was  youth 
in  common  between  the  Poet  and  the  girl,  for  after  all 
the  solemn  name  of  Poet  in  Brandor's  case  mantled  but 
a  boy  in  years,  and  younger  still  in  feeling;  his  art 
more,  at  this  time,  of  promise  than  achievement;  who 
had  wooed  the  muse  melodiously  in  three  or  four  of  the 
sweetest   volumes   of   Persian   yap   imaginable — dainty 
enough  to  reach  the  remotest  feminine  affection — and 
penned  some  more  than  creditable  prose  in  the  domain 
of  Belles  Lettres;  and  was  blessed  with  a  countenance 
as  sweet  as  one  of  his  own  sonnets;  and  an  inheritance 


BELLA  5 

of  riches;  and  a  discriminating  taste  in  apparel.  He 
wore  this  morning,  for  instance,  a  suit  of  almost  snowy 
flannel,  with  a  double-breasted  coat,  as  faultlessly  cut 
as  the  tailor's  art  and  the  most  explicit  directions  and 
three  tryings-on  could  make  it;  and  a  soft  silk  collar — 
all  these,  remember,  at  a  day  far  in  advance  of  the 
odious  popularity  that  subsequently  killed  them,  and 
made  your  artist-nature  turn  with  tears  to  starched 
linen  and  hard  collars  and  stiff  cuffs  for  his  refuge  of 
distinction  from  the  vulgus  profanum  and  a  rose  Du 
Barry  zephyr  shirt,  against  which  a  soft  gray  tie  of 
woven  silk  lay  to  advantage,  and  displayed  most  deli- 
cately a  single  pearl.  His  socks,  too,  were  of  silk  of 
the  same  shade  as  the  tie,  and  his  brogued  shoes  were 
masculine  enough  to  counteract  any  accusation  of  effem- 
inacy, without  being  too  heavy  to  blunt  the  propor- 
tions of  a  small  foot.  Their  wearer  was,  in  sooth, 
something  of  an  exquisite,  but  an  exquisite  of  the  best 
type,  who  seeks  to  express  himself  as  well  in  clothes  as 
in  his  speech,  and  does  not  employ  raiment — like  the 
vulgarly  ambitious — merely  to  adorn  and  make  con- 
spicuous his  person.  For  the  Poet  had  the  gift  of  wear- 
ing fine  things  easily,  and  after  all,  that  eternal  quality 
of  youth  which  transforms  and  transfigures  even  its 
own  follies,  condoned  the  dandy  in  him,  for  nothing  he 
wore  was  more  precious  than  the  tawny  freshness  of 
his  skin,  nor  the  pearl  more  decorative  than  one  of  his 
own  teeth  when  his  speech  or  smile  unlocked  them. 
Without  being  actually  tall,  his  slenderness  lent  the  boy 
height,  and  there  was  the  spare  look  of  the  athlete 
about  his  limbs  as  though  they  entertained  no  useless 
flesh  but  were  thorough  working-members  of  a  dis- 
ciplined and  active  body,  capable  of  effort  and  not 
frightened  of  fatigue.  The  hand  that  had  written 
"  Mnemosyne's  Daughters  "  and  "  A  Sheaf  of  Sonnets  " 


6  BELLA 

and  the  Poet's  own  name— Rupert  Evelyn  Brandor— in 
no  end  of  scented  albums,  was  a  manly  brown,  of  a  sort 
to  grip  a  club  or  yield  a  racket.  The  girl's  gray  eyes 
followed  it  observantly  to  the  Poet's  watch-pocket, 
where  the  sunburned  forefinger  wrapped  itself  about  his 
chain  and  drew  forth  the  gold  chronometer  that  had 
ticked,  twenty  odd  years  before,  against  his  father's 
ample  bosom. 

"  Half  past  eleven,"  the  Poet  told  the  girl,  "  all  but 
two  minutes." 

And  the  girl  said :  "  O  my !  Half  past  eleven,  all  but 
two  minutes,"  in  the  voice  of  a  certain  resignation  (or 
so  he  thought)  as  though  Time's  tardy  processes  af- 
forded her  no  great  joy.  And  then,  more  fervently: 
"Thank  you  very  much."  And  with  a  complimentary 
dilation  of  eye  as  the  Poet  returned  the  chronometer 
to  his  pocket :  "  Excuse  me  ...  but  what  a  lovely 
watch."  He  smiled,  and  held  it  out  once  more  for  the 
girl's  appreciation.  "  Do  you  like  it  ?  " 

She  said :  "  O  my !  I  like  it  ever  so  much.  I  think 
it's  a  beautiful  watch.  It's  solid  gold,  isn't  it?  Yes, 
I  thought  so.  May  I  ..."  and  dropping  suddenly  on 
her  knees  beside  him  she  caressed  with  her  soft  fingers 
what  her  eyes  and  voice  had  already  so  much  admired; 
stroking  the  case  as  if  the  precious  metal  were  flesh  and 
blood,  and  passing  a  reverent  forefinger  over  the  dial, 
while  the  Poet  took  the  opportunity  to  study  the  wor- 
shipful gray  eyes  beneath  the  lowered  lids,  the  small 
underlip  indented  with  the  small  teeth  to  a  sort  of  grave 
wonder  and  cautionary  discipline,  and  the  delicate  soft- 
ness of  the  girl's  features. 

She  asked  him:  "Does  it  chime  the  hours?  No? 
Do  you  wish  it  did?  Perhaps  you  like  it  better  without. 
I  think  I  do,  too.  Mamma  has  some  lovely  watches,"  she 
confided,  when  the  gold  lid  had  winked  like  a  great  eye 


BELLA  7 

under  the  pressure  of  her  thumb  nail  and  been  softly 
folded  down  to  slumber  between  the  fingers  of  both  her 
hands.  "  Not  half  so  big  as  this,  of  course,"  she  made 
haste  to  add,  out  of  consideration  for  the  Poet's  feel- 
ings. "  This  is  ever  such  a  beauty.  But  she  has  one — 
Uncle  Dody  gave  it  her — all  gold  and  enamel.  The  fig- 
ures are  teeny  diamonds,  and  it  strikes  the  hours  in  the 
sweetest  teeniest  chime  you  ever  heard.  O  my!  I  love 
it.  It  is  a  darling.  She  let  me  sleep  with  it  under  my 
pillow  once." 

Her  eyes,  brightened  momentarily  to  panegyric  and 
the  friendliness  of  imparted  glories,  sobered  of  a  sud- 
den, and  her  lips  paused  irresolutely  on  the  threshold 
of  further  confidence,  substituting  with  a  wonderful 
politeness  that  added  a  new  lease  of  interest  to  the 
Poet's  smile :  "  But  I  must  not  detain  you,"  and  assum- 
ing the  grave  and  formal  shape  for  taking  leave;  albeit 
she  did  not  immediately  rise  from  her  knees. 

"Why  not?"  the  Poet  asked  her. 

"  Because — "  The  unexpected  query  plainly  discon- 
certed her.  For  a  while  her  eyes  searched  his  very  sol- 
emnly, as  if  suspecting  some  ambush  in  the  friendliness 
of  their  laughter.  "  Perhaps  you  don't  wish  to  be  dis- 
turbed with  company,"  she  suggested  after  a  moment. 

"  On  the  contrary,"  he  answered,  "  I  should  love  it." 

"Should  you?    Are  you  sure?" 

"  Absolutely." 

"But  perhaps  you  are  expecting  somebody?" 

"  Not  a  soul.    I  am  quite  disengaged.    Do  sit  down." 

"May  I?" 

"I  wish  you  would." 

"  I'd  love  to." 

Her  countenance  during  the  brief  dialogue  had  ani- 
mated once  more  to  friendship;  the  gray  eyes  were  full 
of  it.  She  folded  her  legs  beneath  the  blue  serge  frock 


8  BELLA 

and  subsided  into  a  sitting  posture  at  a  respectful  but 
amicable  distance  from  the  Poet. 

•  I'm  all  by  myself,"  she  said  by  way  of  apology  and 
explanation,  and  bit  her  underlip  as  if  to  indicate 
heavy  state  of  solitude. 

"I'm  all  by  myself,  too,"  the  Poet  told  her  com- 
fortingly, and  the  girl  breathed  a  wondering  and 
miserative  "Omy!" 

"  You  may  sit  a  little  closer  if  you  like. 
"May  I?"  she  asked,  with  a  voice  eager  for  ac- 
ceptance, and  drew  herself  nearer  to  his  extended 
length,  whereat  the  Poet's  smile  converged  to  a  star- 
point  of  mirth,  twinkling  benignantly  upon  the  girl's 
eyes,  that  dilated  to  a  certain  solemn  wonder  in  return 
as  though  his  amusement  were  costing  her  some  trouble 
to  comprehend,  like  a  new  long  word.  The  gray  of 
these  eyes  was  very  deep  and  absorbent,  and  their  gaze, 
once  leveled,  seemed  to  grow  and  mold  itself  about  the 
object  looked  at  with  a  soft  visual  insistence,  as  if  sight, 
with  her,  were  plastic  and  must  be  refashioned  to  fit  the 
shape  of  each  fresh  thing  seen. 

"Well,  then,"  the  Poet  said,  "it  seems  that  you 
and  I  are  both  shipmates  wrecked  on  the  Lonely  Islands 
this  morning.  So  we  shall  have  to  be  very  kind  to  each 
other  and  try  to  forget  all  our  misfortunes.  What  do 
you  say  ? " 

The  girl  said:  "O  my!"  that  soft  watchword  of 
her  nature,  that  she  seemed  to  breathe  for  all  the  varied 
purposes  of  emotion,  making  it  by  turns  express  sur- 
prise or  sorrow,  or  sadness  or  commiseration  or  keen 
delight.  "  I  say,  too,"  she  asserted  loyally,  and  added 
in  a  luminous  effusion  of  candor :  "  It's  a  good  thing  I 
spoke  to  you,  isn't  it?  And  I  nearly  didn't.  I  might 
have  spoken  to  the  other  " — here  her  lips  wrestled  for  a 
suitable  designation— "the  other  gentleman,  if  he  hadn't 


BELLA  9 

turned  round  and  wanted  to  know  what  I  was  staring 
at:  And  I  wasn't  staring.  I  was  only  wondering.  I 
was  frightened  you'd  turn  round,  too,  before  I'd  made 
up  my  mind  whether  to  ask  you  or  not. 

"  I  don't  know  what  made  me  speak  to  you  a  bit," 
she  continued,  pursuing  the  psychology  of  her  conduct 
with  solemn  perseverance.  "  I  didn't  speak  to  anybody 
yesterday,  and  I  didn't  the  day  before  that.  Oh,  yes, 
I  beg  your  pardon,"  she  corrected  conscientiously,  "  I 
did  that  day,  but  it  was  only  because  she  dropped  her 
glove.  And  I  don't  think  she  was  very  pleased  either 
when  I  gave  it  her,  because  it  was  all  in  holes.  Such 
big  ones.  But  the  day  before  that  I  didn't.  I  just 
walked  about  and  looked  at  people.  But  it  was  no 
good.  Everybody  was  happy  enough  without  me,  and 
wouldn't  look  at  me,  or  looked  too  hard. 

"  It  must  be  awfully  difficult  to  beg,  mustn't  it? 
Beg  for  money,  I  mean.  Awfully.  When  people  don't 
want  to  see  you,  and  don't  want  to  listen  to  you,  and 
don't  want  to  give  you  anything.  Once  I  stood  and 
watched  some  boys  and  girls  playing  ball.  I  liked  that ; 
it  was  lovely.  I  stood  quite  close,  and  laughed  when 
they  laughed,  and  got  to  know  their  names,  and  picked 
up  the  ball  once  when  they  missed  it,  but  they  only  said : 
'  Thank  you,'  and  never  asked  me  to  play  too.  I  would, 
if  they'd  asked  me.  And  this  morning,  when  I  saw 
you  lying  here  alone — I  thought  somehow — perhaps — 
O  my,  I  don't  know.  I  saw  you  ever  such  a  long  way 
off  at  first — right  over  there  " — she  indicated  with  the 
hand  that  held  the  leather  and  sawdust  ball — "  where 
the  man  is  cutting  the  insides  out  of  the  prickly  fish 
that  smell  so  dreadful.  Doesn't  it  seem  cruel.  And  I 
came  nearer  and  looked  at  you,  and  wondered  whether 
.  r  .  I  made  up  my  mind  to  speak  to  you  just  as  soon 
as  ever  I'd  counted  ten.  But  I  changed  to  twenty.  I 
2 


10  BELLA 

couldn't  see  a  bit  what  you  were  like  from  the  back, 
yet  somehow— isn't  it  funny?— as  soon  as  ever  you 
looked  round  I  felt  you  were  just  what  I'd  expected 
you  to  be." 

"But  tell  me,"  said  the  Poet,  readjusting  himself 
on  elbow.  "You  are  not  all  alone,  surely?  You  have 
some  friends  here." 

"Of  course,  there's  mamma,"  the  girl  made  haste 
to  assure  him.  Her  eyes  grew  at  the  mention  very  large 
and  mournful,  resting  awhile  on  the  Poet's  face  with 
a  look  of  trouble.  "  But  mamma's  ill.  She  hasn't  been 
out  for  a  whole  week.  And  Leonie  must  stay  with 
mamma — that's  why  I'm  all  by  myself.  I  wanted  to 
stay  with  mamma,  too,  but  mamma  wouldn't  let  me. 
She  said  she  would  get  well  ever  so  much  quicker  if 
I  went  out  onto  the  sands  and  lent  her  my  eyes,  and 
told  her  all  there  was  to  see.  I  begged  ever  so  hard, 
but  she  said  No,  no;  sick  rooms  were  no  places  for 
growing  girls.  They  were  for  old  women.  But 
mamma's  not  an  old  woman. 

"The  Doctor  comes  to  see  her  every  day.  Such  a 
funny  man  he  is,  with  ever  such  a  shiny  hat,  and  a 
wooden  trumpet  inside  it.  That's  to  listen  to  people's 
insides.  He  says  everybody  has  a  different  tune.  I 
asked  him  what  my  tune  was,  and  he  listened  and  said : 
'Girls  and  boys  come  out  to  play/  Do  you  believe 
it?  He  always  says  'we'  when  he  means  mamma. 
Like  this:  '  How  do  we  feel  this  morning?  '  '  Have  we 
been  taking  proper  care  of  ourselves?'  'Oh,  we  are 
picking  up  nicely  '—that  was  this  morning.  It's  some- 
thing the  matter  with  her  heart,"  she  explained,  and 
stopped  at  that,  her  eyes  fixed  on  the  Poet  in  a  large 
gaze  of  scrutiny,  as  though  to  glean  from  his  recep- 
tion of  the  malady  some  gauge  of  its  degree. 


BELLA  11 

"  Is  it  very,  very  dangerous  ?  "  she  asked,  when  the 
Poet  had  expressed  regret. 

"  One  has  to  take  a  little  care." 

"One  must  not  walk  too  fast?" 

"  No." 

"  Or  run  upstairs — or  laugh  too  much — or  get  ex- 
cited?" 

"  No." 

"  That's  what  the  Doctor  says.  When  I  heard  them 
talking  about  mamma's  heart  in  such  dreadful  voices  I 
thought  she  was  going  to  die,  and  Leonie  thought  the 
same,  and  I  went  upstairs  and  cried.  O  my!  I  cried 
awfully,  till  I  couldn't  see  the  pattern  on  the  wall-paper. 
I  wanted  to  die,  too,  and  I  thought  perhaps  I  could 
if  I  cried  long  enough.  But  after  a  time  I  couldn't  cry 
any  longer,  and  Leonie  came  up  and  caught  me  and 
told  mamma — though  she  promised  she  wouldn't.  And 
mamma  said  I  was  a  silly  girl  to  waste  a  whole  after- 
noon in  crying  just  because  she  happened  to  have  a 
heart  that  went  a  little  too  fast  and  a  little  too  slow 
at  times,  like  a  clock  that  wants  cleaning.  She  said  lots 
of  people  have  hearts  like  that  and  never  know  any- 
thing about  it.  I  think  mine's  like  'that,  too.  I  was 
listening  to  it  the  other  night  in  bed,  and  once  it  stopped 
for  a  whole  minute.  That  frightened  me.  Leonie  says 
I  made  it  up,  and  I'm  too  young  to  know  anything 
about  hearts.  Mamma  laughed  when  I  told  her  and 
said  fiddle-de-dee.  She  says  it  isn't  half  so  bad  to 
have  a  heart  as  bow-legs  or  a  squint,  for  it  doesn't 
need  a  wooden  trumpet  to  find  out  those." 

The  Poet  said :  "  I  agree  with  mamma." 

"  And  so  do  I,"  the  girl  concurred.  "  Mamma  says 
she  envies  me  my  frocks,  and  it's  a  shame  for  them  ever 
to  be  any  longer.  My  next  is  to  come  down  to  here. 


12  BELLA 

She  says  half  the  misery  in  the  world  is  made  by  clothes, 
and  I  think  it  must  be." 

She  gabbled  on  with  refreshing  volubility ;  her  voice, 
as  cool  as  water,  rose  and  fell  with  the  artless  cadence 
of  a  fountain.  There  was  not  the  slightest  sense  of 
seeking  effect  either  in  word  or  action;  none  of  the 
palpable  precocity  with  which  spoiled  childhood  asserts 
itself,  and  transgresses  the  bounds  of  privilege  in  con- 
versation. Had  he  detected  the  slightest  hint  of  this— 
and  behind  his  smile  the  Poet  kept  keen  vigil— his  in- 
terest would  have  flagged  at  once,  for  he  hated  spoiled 
childhood  as  he  did  a  false  quantity.  But  with  this 
gray-eyed  girl  it  all  seemed  so  easy  and  so  effortless. 
The  words  looked  to  lie  so  near  her  lips  that  he  felt 
rather  they  had  never  come  from  the  depths  of  her 
understanding,  but  from  its  surface,  where  they  dropped 
lightly  in  the  first  instance;  falling  from  her  cleanly 
now,  without  any  added  coloring  of  personal  intention. 
She  showed  her  mother's  sayings,  indeed,  like  beads; 
treasured  for  themselves,  and  because  of  the  giver,  that 
she  displayed  freely,  not  with  the  desire  to  deck  herself, 
but  out  of  a  spirit  of  grateful  loyalty  and  loving  pride. 

"And  mamma  says — "  the  girl  went  on,  then  broke 
off  suddenly  with  her  lips  half  framed,  and  her  eyes 
stock-still  in  a  gaze  of  scrutiny.  "  What  sort  of  hair  do 
you  like  best  ?  "  she  asked  after  a  moment. 

"  Jugged  hare,"  said  the  Poet. 

"  Jugged  hare  ?  O  my !  I  didn't  mean  that.  I  mean 
the  other  sort  of  hair— h-a— "  She  fixed  the  Poet  with 
a  spasmodic  gaze.  "  I  can't  spell  a  bit,"  she  confessed 
blandly.  "  But  I  think  it's  i,  isn't  it?  This  sort  of  hair," 
she  explained,  and  pulled  a  handful  over  her  shoulder. 

"  That  sort  of  hair?    Oh,  yes,  it's  i." 

"What  sort  of  hair  do  you  like  best,  then?"  the 


BELLA  13 

girl  demanded,  restating  her  question  on  the  basis  of 
solid  understanding. 

"That  sort,"  said  the  Poet. 

"  This  sort  ?  "  asked  the  girl,  tugging  it  demonstra- 
tively. "Like  I've  got?" 

"  Like  you've  got,"  answered  the  Poet,  following  her 
loyally  beyond  the  trespass  boards  of  grammar. 

The  girl  took  up  her  old  words  once  more.  "  Mam- 
ma says,"  she  resumed,  "that  I've  got  beautiful  hair, 
too.  I  ought  to  be  proud  of  that.  No,  not  proud; 
glad.  Leonie  says  the  color  is  sure  to  go  darker.  She 
says  hers  was  ever  so  much  goldener  than  mine  when 
she  was  my  age,  and  much  longer,  and  thicker,  and 
more  admired.  She  wore  it  in  two  plaits  as  thick  as 
my  wrist,  and  they  hung  right  down  her  back,  tied  with 
large  bows  of  blue  ribbon,  and  people  used  to  take 
hold  of  them  in  the  street  and  say :  '  O  my !  What 
pretty  hair,  and  whose  little  girl  are  you  ? '  You  like 
the  color,  don't  you?"  she  asked  the  Poet.  "And  so 
fine.  Almost  like  silk.  See — you  may  take  hold  of  it 
if  you  like,"  she  said,  and  stooping  slightly  forward, 
tendered  a  golden  strang  to  the  Poet  on  her  open  palm. 
"  Some  day,"  she  went  on  mournfully,  "  all  that  has  to 
be  done  up  on  my  head.  Mamma  says  it  is  a  shame. 
Of  course,  that  won't  be  yet  a  bit.  Not  for  one — two — 
three — "  She  stopped  at  the  third  finger  to  ask  the 
Poet  a  riddle.  "  How  old  do  you  think  I  am  ?  " 

He  guessed  "  Fifteen,"  not  for  a  moment  that  he 
thought  it.  The  answer  gratified  her,  as  he  knew  it 
would. 

She  thanked  him  with  a  delighted  "  O  my ! "  and 
bade  him  guess  again. 

"  Fourteen." 

"  Guess  again." 


14  BELLA 

"Thirteen.     But  no.     That's  impossible." 

She  interposed  the  assurance  of  a  nodding  head. 

"Yes.     That's  it.     You've  guessed  at  last." 

She  shot  a- little  preluding  glance  at  the  Poet's  face; 
a  shy  look  of  calculation  with  figures  in  it  that  made 
him  inwardly  luminous  with  laughter. 

"  I  suppose  you're  older,"  she  hazarded  softly,  after 
a  moment. 

"Older  every  day." 

"  But  older  than  that,  I  mean.    Older  than  me." 

"Older  than  you?    Oh,  yes." 

She  nodded.  "I  thought  so.  A  lot  older,  aren't 
you?" 

"I'm  afraid  a  lot  older." 

"Four  years  older,  perhaps,"  she  pursued,  in  her 
voice  of  cool  dispassion;  and  then,  as  the  Poet's  in- 
ward laughter  rose  up  and  flooded  the  eyes  she  had 
been  probing  so  closely :  "  I  don't  want  to  know  how 
old  you  are,"  she  added,  with  chastened  apology.  "  Not 
a  bit,  if  you  don't  care  to  tell  me.  Only  I  couldn't  help 
wondering.  I've  told  you  how  old  I  am,  haven't  I? 
But,  of  course,  that  doesn't  make  any  difference."  She 
stopped,  discerning  the  indulgent  quality  of  the  Poet's 
laughter.  "You're  going  to  tell  me,"  she  cried  with 
a  voice  of  jubilation.  "  I  know  you  are." 

"Oh."  The  Poet  dwelt  awhile  with  his  laughter 
before  replying.  Never  had  he  met  a  girl  like  this. 
"Twenty-two,"  he  told  her.  "There.  It  makes  me 
frightfully  sad.  Now  you  know  the  canker  at  the  core." 

"Twenty-two."  She  tested  his  age  for  a  moment 
with  her  teeth  upon  her  lip. 

"It's  frightfully  old,  isn't  it?"  the  Poet  asked  her. 
"Think  of  carrying  twenty-two  years  about  with  you 
on  a  hot  day !  " 

"It's    more   than    I    thought,"    the    girl    admitted. 


BELLA  15 

"  How  much  is  thirteen  from  twenty-two.  Seven,  isn't 
it?  No,  eight;  no,  nine!  Nine  years  older  than  me. 
Mamma  says  the  older  you  grow  the  less  you  seem  to 
have  lived.  I'm  to  understand  that  when  I  grow  up. 
And  she  says  a  man  lives  as  long  as  his  money,  and 
a  woman  as  long  as  her  looks.  That  seems  funny,  too, 
doesn't  it?" 


II 

THE  sun  above  their  heads  burned  steadfast,  sus- 
pended like  a  brazier  from  the  blue  stillness  of 
the  sky,  making  distant  bricks  and  mortar  tremble  in- 
substantially,  and  drawing  spirals  of  hot  air  from  the 
shimmering  salt- wet  sands  until  the  whole  beautiful 
bay  seemed  but  the  reflection  of  itself  seen  in  blown 
water.  Odors,  in  the  burning  immobile  air,  were  woven 
as  into  tapestry;  weedy  iodine;  wafts  of  tobacco;  the 
brine  of  evaporating  sea- water;  the  saline  freshness  of 
herrings;  collodion,  aromatic  and  not  ungrateful,  from 
the  little  wooden  dark-room  on  wheels,  like  a  peram- 
bulator in  petticoats,  pertaining  to  the  adjacent  pho- 
tographer. Not  a  cloud  subdued  the  blue  intensity  of 
sky  or  broke  the  indigo  sea-line.  The  tepid  waves  were 
but  magnified  ripples,  that  slid  to  shore  and  fretted 
their  thin  murmurous  way  through  the  marginal  sea- 
wrack  and  the  faint  tide-line  of  fine  coal,  and  countless 
bare  legs.  Life,  animate  and  eager,  everywhere  re- 
sponded to  the  stimulus  of  sunlight  and  blue  sky.  Rain- 
bow colors  dissolved  kaleidoscopically  over  the  beach; 
here  a  sudden  sky-rocket  flight  of  children  discharged 
to  the  water's  edge,  streaming  cries  and  laughter,  and 
bursting  into  spray  and  sea-foam;  there  some  solitary 
note  of  color  struck  vividly  afar;  the  gay  awning  of 
an  ice-cream  van  or  the  red  fez  of  the  pseudo-Turkish 
nougat  vendor,  hawking  his  succulent  sweetmeat  on  the 
familiar  tray  slung  from  his  neck,  to  the  accompani- 
ment of  his  melancholy  plain-song,  and  the  antiphonic 

16 


BELLA  17 

jingle  of  an  apronful  of  coppers  stirred  by  hand,  or 
'shaken  against  his  thighs  in  walking. 

"  Nougat !  Nougat !  How  you  like — all  f  raish — all 
sweet — von  penny !  Nougat !  " 

Mammoth  bathing  vans,  each  one  branded  with  the 
pill-maker's  name,  moved  hugely  in  and  out  of  the 
ocean;  cumbrous,  prehistoric  monsters,  under  doom  of 
extinction,  basking  in  the  sunshine  by  herds  on  the 
shore,  or  drowsing  patiently  up  to  their  midway,  hippo- 
potamus-wise in  the  water.  And  all  about  these,  and  to 
either  side  beyond,  boys  bare-legged  to  the  hips,  busy 
with  destructive  spades,  and  vociferous  with  projects 
for  reservoirs  and  harbors;  and  frantic  timorous  girls, 
tucked  up  into  a  profusion  of  petticoats,  shrieking  their 
gladness  in  three  inches  of  water;  and  dancing  rings 
of  sea-maidens  in  mob  caps  and  spacious  bathing  gowns, 
bobbing  at  the  end  of  ropes,  or  floundering  like  stranded 
flat-fish,  or  fleeing  shoreward  from  imaginary  waves; 
and  ancient  and  inscrutable  sunburned  bathing-women, 
like  draped  mahogany  bedposts,  on  hire  to  dip  protest- 
ing youth,  while  solicitous  parentage  stood  dry-shod  on 
the  shore  to  conduct  the  ritual  of  immersion  by  signs 
of  walking-stick  or  parasol.  And  out  beyond  these, 
the  strong  swimmers  flashing  their  white  arms  against 
the  azure  background  of  sea,  and  the  bathing  boat  lazily 
a-rocking  on  its  inverted  image,  and  the  gray  stone  piers 
of  the  harbor — purified  in  the  incandescent  sunlight  to 
blinding  alabaster — clasped  about  a  bosomful  of  ships, 
and  reverberating  with  dim  oceanic  noises;  clank  of 
chain,  and  clash  of  scupper,  and  rattle  of  derrick,  and 
thrum  of  engine,  and  hiss  of  steam,  and  clangorous 
ring  of  bells  from  the  fish  pontoon,  where  rows  of 
scaly,  flabby  fish  await  a  buyer;  and  high  above  the 
bleached  and  buzzing  harbor,  the  scarred  white  castle, 
embedded  boldly  in  the  blue  sky;  blind-eyed  and  dis- 


18  BELLA 

figured,  but  smiling  in  the  sun  like  a  serene  immortal 
whom  all  the  futile  furies  of  mankind  cannot  kill.  .  .  . 
in  a  word,  Spathorpe. 

And  what  a  word !  Spathorpe  at  the  height  of  her 
glory,  on  a  golden  forenoon  in  July !  Not  the  dowager 
Spathorpe  of  more  modern  days — commanding  and  in- 
comparable though  she  be — that  grows  in  girth  and 
spreading  amplitude  of  skirt,  embroidered  with  public 
gardens  and  stiffened  with  sea-walls  and  cement;  but 
that  shimmering,  younger,  lovelier  Spathorpe,  dear  to 
all  of  us  that  knew  her  then;  before  municipalities  tinc- 
tured the  complexion  of  their  boroughs,  and  fought 
fiercely  for  supremacy  on  advertisement  hoardings; 
when  Spathorpe  had  her  appointed  season,  and  kept 
her  stately  court  among  the  watering-places  of  the 
world,  like  the  queen  she  is,  and  was  frequented  by 
rank  and  fashion,  and  her  houses  sheltered  great  names, 
and  great  manners  were  practised  in  her  public  places. 

Spathorpe,  fifteen,  sixteen,  seventeen — Q  my!  even 
twenty  years  ago. 


Ill 

THEY  sat  not  far  from  the  green  wet  rocks  of  the 
Children's  Corner,  where  kirtled  childhood  multi- 
plied sand  pies  and  castles,  and  betoweled  nursemaids 
read  fiction  in  the  shade,  and  negro  minstrels  pitched 
their  midday  circle,  and  children's  services  were  wont 
to  be  held  by  the  pious  precursors  of  the  Pierrots.  Be- 
hind their  backs  the  inclined  tram  glided  steeply  up 
and  down  the  cliff,  and  the  buildings  of  the  Parade 
scintillated  in  the  sunshine,  its  parapet  and  terraces 
tropical  with  parasols.  Mingled  with  the  syncopated 
cough  of  the  engine  that  puffed  thin  wisps  of  steam 
through  the  tiled  roof  of  the  tramway  station,  they 
heard,  as  they  talked,  the  frothy  music  of  Herr  Toots's 
band  that  sparkled  merrily  every  now  and  then  and 
caused  the  girl  to  check  her  speech  with  an  appreciative 
"  O  my !  Listen.  Isn't  that  pretty !  I  love  music — 
don't  you?" 

Her  name,  the  Poet  learned,  was  Bella  Dysart.  This 
she  volunteered  herself,  although  some  while  he  had 
been  wondering,  and  when  the  information  was  im- 
parted, looked  at  him  keenly  as  children  do  after  be- 
stowing a  gift,  to  learn  what  value  the  recipient  puts 
upon  it. 

"  Is  it  a  funny  name  ?  "  she  asked. 

"A  very  pretty  name,  I  think,"  the  Poet  answered. 

"  I  think  so,  too,"  the  girl  admitted,  fortified  with 
his  assurance,  "  although  at  times  I  wish  it  were  a  little 
longer.  Mamma  has  two  names — Isabel  and  Veronica. 
How  do  you  like  those  ?  " 

19 


20  BELLA 

The  Poet  told  her:  "Excellently." 
"So  do  I.    Better  than  mine?" 
"Once,"  she  went  on,  after  he  had  appeased  her 
doubt,  "  when  I  was  thanking  mamma  for  having  called 
e  such  a  pretty  name,  I  asked  her  why  she  had  not 
™en  me  two,  like  her,  and  she  told  me :    «  One's  quite 
plenty  for  a  little  girl/     '  But  how  when  I'm  grown 
up?'     I  asked,  and  she  said:     'Ah!  never  grow  up, 
Bella    That's  just  the  mistake  your  mother  made. 
"Mamma    is    beautiful,"    she    informed    the 
"  Ever  so  much  more  beautiful  than  me.    I'm  not  beau- 
tiful.    At  least,  not  very.     Leonie  says  I  shan't  last. 

Mrs.  Herring " 

"Mrs.  who?" 

"  Mrs.  Herring."  She  offered  him  the  name  again 
and  waited  a  moment  for  his  opinion.  "  It's  a  funnier 
name  than  mine,  isn't  it?"  she  said. 

The  Poet  laughed.    "Who  is  Mrs.  Herring?" 
"Where  we  live.     At  least,  not  exactly  where  we 
live,  but  just  round  the  corner.    At  least,  not  just  round 
the  corner,  but  the  corner  house." 
"And  where  do  you  live?" 

She  turned,  resting  herself  on  her  left  hand,  and 
with  the  right  sought  to  establish  locality.  "  Up  there." 
Her  pointing  hand  rose  exploringly  over  the  tiers  of 
deep  green  trees  that  shade  the  terraces  of  the  Parade, 
to  where  the  crescent  of  painted  houses  on  the  Esplanade 
gleams  white,  like  Spathorpe's  brow.  Then  of  a  sud- 
den she  burst  into  radiance  as  her  groping  finger  suc- 
ceeded in  its  quest. 

"There.  Now  I  see  it.  Look!  Can't  you  make 
it  out?  See — follow  my  finger.  That's  the  Sceptre 
Hotel  over  there,  isn't  it?  Of  course,  it  is.  Very  well! 
Now  look  slowly  along  this  way — past  where  the  landau 
is  standing.  Do  you  see  all  those  white  houses  with 


BELLA  21 

green  shutters  and  balconies?  Those  are  towels  hang- 
ing out  of  the  top  windows.  And  then  do  you  see  a 
large  house  all  built  of  stone?  You  do?  That's  Mrs. 
Herring's.  And  if  you  go  up  that  street  you  come  to 
a  square.  Cromwell  Lodge  is  on  your  left,  just  as  you 
go  into  it." 

"And  you   live  there?" 

"  Yes.  We  came  a  fortnight  ago.  Mamma  has 
taken  the  house  furnished.  Isn't  that  lovely ! "  She 
gabbled  on  for  awhile  about  the  house,  enumerating 
its  rooms  upon  her  fingers.  "  Dining-room,  drawing- 
room,  breakfast-room,  billiard-room.  At  least,  there 
isn't  a  billiard  table;  but  there  are  big  green  leather 
seats  all  round,  with  such  beautiful  springs.  You  can 
play  ride-a-cock-horse  on  them  when  it  rains.  Of 
course,  we  haven't  all  the  rooms.  Two  of  them  are 
locked.  I  wonder  what's  inside.  Mamma  calls  them 
the  Bluebeard  rooms.  There's  nothing  to  see  when  you 
look  through  the  keyhole  except  some  furniture  and  a 
lot  of  books  and  things  wrapped  up  in  dust-sheets.  Oh, 
and  I  forgot.  Mamma  has  a  lovely  boudoir  upstairs 
next  to  her  bedroom.  Well,  it  was  a  bedroom  really, 
only  mamma  said  it  would  be  beautiful  as  a  boudoir — 
with  pink  paper.  Do  you  like  pink?  So  do  I — I  love 
it.  Mrs.  Herring  says  that  once  upon  a  time  ever  such 
a  gentleman  and  lady  took  the  house  for  the  whole  sea- 
son, and  went  away  without  paying  a  penny.  Wasn't 
that  dreadful?  Mrs.  Herring  says  she  never  liked  the 
looks  of  them  from  the  first.  And  when  the  gentle- 
man came  back — not  the  gentleman  that  went  away 
with  the  lady,  but  the  gentleman  belonging  to  the  house 
— he  found  they  had  taken  ever  such  a  lot  of  valuable 
things  away  with  them,  packed  up  in  some  of  his  own 
portmanteaux  out  of  the  box-room — such  a  lovely  box- 
room.  Why,  you  may  say  it's  a  bedroom  really — with 


22  BELLA 

a  teeny  darling  of  a  fireplace,  but  it's  frightfully  close 
now,  because,  of  course,  the  window  is  never  opened, 
and  it  smells  of  old  leather.  Mrs.  Herring  says  you've 
got  to  be  awfully  sharp  in  Spathorpe  during  the  season. 
All  kinds  of  queer  people  come.  She  says  if  you're 
not  careful  they  give  you  a  sovereign,  and  then  when 
you  want  to  buy  something  with  it  they  snap  it  on 
the  counter,  or  break  it  in  two  and  tell  you  it's  bad. 
She  had  two  sixpences  like  that  last  year." 

The  quaint  recurrence  of  the  name  of  Herring 
caused  an  almost  imperceptible  flicker  in  the  Poet's 
smile. 

"  You  mentioned  Mrs.  Herring  before,"  he  reminded 
the  girl.  "  I  think  you  were  going  to  tell  me  something 
about  her." 

"  O  yes."  She  nodded  her  head  over  a  repetition 
of  the  name.  "  Do  you  know  how  we  came  to  be 
friends?  Of  course,  you  don't.  I  ought  to  have  told 
you  that  first.  It  happened  this  way.  I'd  looked  down 
and  seen  Mrs.  Herring  through  the  basement  window 
lots  of  times.  And  one  morning — I  think  it  was  the 
third  day  after  we  came — I  was  walking  by  when  I  saw 
a  poor  black  cat  all  hunched  up  on  the  steps,  and  a  dog 
standing  over  it.  The  cat  kept  mewing  in  a  dreadful 
voice,  and  every  now  and  then  it  shut  its  eyes  as  though 
it  couldn't  bear  to  look  any  longer ;  and  the  dog  plopped 
with  its  front  paws  and  barked.  And  there  was  a 
horrid  boy  close  by,  wearing  an  apron,  with  a  basket 
over  his  head  and  the  handle  in  his  mouth,  who  said: 
'  Sssss ! '  O  my !  That  made  me  ever  so  angry.  I 
called  him  a  coward  and  said :  '  How  would  you  like 
somebody  to  say  "  Ssss  "  at  you  ?  '  and  he  put  his  tongue 
out.  Then  I  picked  up  the  cat  and  stroked  it  and  went 
down  the  area  steps  and  knocked  at  Mrs.  Herring's 
door.  Mrs.  Herring  came  herself,  and  I  said:  'Oh, 


BELLA  23 

please.  I've  brought  your  cat.  A  horrid  dog  was  try- 
ing to  bite  it.'  And  she  held  out  her  arms  and  I  put  the 
cat  in,  and  she  said :  '  It  isn't  my  cat.  It  belongs  next 
door.'  And  just  then  the  dog  came  down  the  steps 
and  I  stamped  my  foot  at  him  and  clapped  my  hands 
to  send  him  away,  but  Mrs.  Herring  said :  '  Why,  it's 
Bendigo.  He's  my  dog,'  and  told  me  they  were  the 
best  of  friends.  And  would  you  believe  it,  the  cat 
began  to  rub  her  back  under  Bendigo's  nose,  and  Mrs. 
Herring  said :  *  They're  waiting  for  the  fish  man.  That's 
who  they're  waiting  for ' — the  man  that  cries :  *  Fee- 
raish  feesh/  every  morning,  and  makes  a  song  of  '  New 
Boy  Lobster '  and  '  Macker  Eel.'  Haven't  you  heard 
him?  O  my!  He's  funny.  I  love  him." 

And  then,  it  would  seem,  the  girl  had  told  Mrs. 
Herring :  "  Excuse  me,  but  what  a  lovely  big  house 
you've  got.  I  hope  it  isn't  a  rude  question,  but  is  that 
the  kitchen  where  I  saw  your  head  through  the  window 
this  morning?  It  must  be  a  beautiful  kitchen."  To 
which  Mrs.  Herring  retorted:  "You  wouldn't  say  so  if 
you  had  to  cook  in  it  these  hot  days !  "  And  then,  some- 
how or  other,  the  golden  hair  appeared  to  be  established 
inside,  and  its  proprietress  saw  Mr.  Herring  at  work 
upon  the  knives  in  the  scullery  with  his  coat  off,  blow- 
ing out  his  lips  and  saying :  "  Bsss !  Bsss !  " ;  and  made 
acquaintance  with  some  domestic  young  ladies  named 
Louisa  and  Helen  respectively;  and  witnessed  the  prep- 
aration of  his  mid-morning's  broth  for  Sir  Henry  Phil- 
limore,  who  permanently  occupied  Mrs.  Herring's  left- 
hand  sitting-room  with  the  bedroom  and  dressing-room 
above.  She  appeared  even  to  have  been  permitted  to 
take  awed  stock  of  the  illustrious  knight  through  the 
crack  in  the  sitting-room  door,  what  time  it  remained 
open  between  Louisa's  entrance  and  retirement,  and 
confided  to  the  Poet  the  picture  of  a  very  aged  and 


24  BELLA 

venerable  gentleman  with  the  whitest  of  long  white  hair, 
who  even  on  that  hot  morning  had  a  plaid  fringed  shawl 
at  hand  over  the  arm  of  his  chair  in  case  he  might 
need  to  pass  from  his  sitting-room  to  the  room  above, 
or  take  a  turn  as  far  as  the  sea-front.  For  it  appeared 
Sir  Henry  had  exchanged  the  functions  of  his  liver 
for  a  pension  (and  subsequent  knighthood)  derived 
from  the  Imperial  Pools  and  Reservoir  Service  in  India, 
and  for  him  the  hottest  of  air  in  motion  constituted  a 
draught.  His  face  was  crinkled  (the  girl  imparted) 
just  like  a  walnut;  and  his  moustache  and  the  little  im- 
perial beneath  the  lower  lip  were  snowy  white  and 
looked  not  to  belong  to  him.  He  did  not  lift  his  face 
from  the  perusal  of  his  paper  when  Louisa  entered  with 
the  cup  of  smoking  bouillon,  and  his  lips  shaped  no 
words  of  thanks,  nor  had  he  shifted  his  position  in  the 
slightest  when  the  door-crack  trapped  him  from  view. 
This  vision  of  aged  impassivity  manifestly  awed  the 
girl,  even  in  remembrance.  She  wondered  what  his 
voice  must  sound  like. 

So  that  was  the  beginning,  she  explained,  of  her 
friendship  with  Mrs.  Herring.  The  horrid  dog  became 
a  darling,  and  the  cat  a  dear.  And  thereafter  it  seemed 
she  always  waved  to  Mrs.  Herring  when  she  passed  the 
railings,  and  called  to  inquire  after  Bendigo's  health 
which  appeared  to  be  of  the  best. 

"Mrs.  Herring's  ever  so  nice.  She  lets  me  make 
toast  on  the  gas  oven.  It's  a  beautiful  oven,  with  I 
don't  know  how  many  taps — I  think  fifty.  You  pull 
a  handle  out  at  the  side  and  all  the  burners  go  upside 
down.  You  have  to  be  awfully  careful,  of  course,  be- 
cause it  might  blow  up  and  kill  you  if  you  turn  on  the 
wrong  taps.  Mrs.  Herring  says  so.  I'd  love  to  let 
rooms  like  Mrs.  Herring  when  I'm  grown  up.  Some  day 


BELLA  25 

she's  going  to  let  me  make  toast  for  the  other  gentle- 
man and  put  the  pieces  in  the  rack  myself." 

"  The  other  gentleman  ?  " 

"  Yes.  The  gentleman  in  the  big  room  upstairs.  Of 
course  I  haven't  told  you  about  him,  have  I?  He  only 
came  to  Mrs.  Herring's  this  morning.  At  least,  he 
hasn't  come  at  all  yet;  he  doesn't  come  till  lunch,  but  I 
saw  his  luggage  in  the  hall.  O  my!  Such  a  lot  of 
luggage  for  only  one — almost  as  much  as  mamma's. 
Mrs.  Herring  said :  '  Good  gracious !  It  might  be  a 
family ! '  Great  leather  trunks  as  big  as  bathing  vans 
almost,  covered  with  foreign  labels — Paris,  and  Vienna 
and  Dresden — I  read  them  myself  and  I  know  those, 
because  mamma's  been  there.  It  took  Mr.  Herring  and 
another  man — poor  man,  his  trousers  were  torn;  you 
could  see  his  bare  leg  through ;  I  don't  think  he  had  any 
stockings,  and  Mrs.  Herring  doesn't  think  he  had 
either — it  took  them  ever  so  long  to  get  the  trunks  up- 
stairs. They  had  two  towels  through  the  handles  and 
struggled  up  step  by  step.  Each  time  they  lifted  their 
faces  went  red,  and  they  made  such  dreadful  noises 
when  they  put  the  trunks  down.  The  man  in  front 
walked  backward  and  kept  calling  all  the  time :  '  Stop  a 
bit.  Where  are  my  legs  now  ? '  And  Mr.  Herring 
said :  '  Why  didn't  you  bring  an  extra  pair  of  arms  for 
this  job?  Legs  are  only  in  the  way.'  Mr.  Herring's  so 
funny.  I  love  him.  And  Mrs.  Herring  kept  saying: 
'  Whatever  you  do,  mind  the  paint," — but  I'm  sure  they 
couldn't  help  that  teeny  bit  by  the  landing." 

This  other  gentleman,  she  told  the  Poet,  had  never 
meant  to  stay  with  Mrs.  Herring  at  all.  The  rooms 
were  really  taken  by  some  friends  of  his — a  Mr.  Pend- 
lip  (that  was  a  funny  name,  too,  wasn't  it!)  and  Mrs. 
Pendlip,  and  their  daughter,  and  a  maid.  And  the 
3 


26  BELLA 

other  gentleman  was  to  stay  at  the  Sceptre  for  a  short 
time.  But  when  he  arrived  yesterday— didn't  it  seem 
sad!— there  was  a  letter  waiting  for  him  at  the  hotel 
to  say  that  Miss  Pendlip  had  caught  something  (she 
forgot  what  it  was,  but  it  was  very  funny,  and  began 
with  a  p)  and  they  couldn't  come  to  Spathorpe  for  a 
week  or  more.  And  so  the  gentleman  was  taking  their 
rooms.  Whatever  was  his  name?  She  had  been  say- 
ing it  to  herself  on  the  sands  this  morning. 

"  Mrs.  Herring  says  he's  ever  so  nice — and  quite 
young.  I'm  to  have  a  peep  at  him  as  soon  as  he's 
settled.  That's  a  promise.  He  has  dark  brown  eyes. 
Do  you  like  brown  eyes?  I  think  they're  lovely.  I 
wish  mine  were  brown.  Mrs.  Herring  says  he  is  the 
handsomest  gentleman  she  ever  saw."  She  paused  at 
that,  and  her  gaze  rested  on  the  Poet  as  if  suddenly 
shocked  with  itself.  "  But  perhaps  he's  not,  after  all," 
she  added  hurriedly.  "  That's  only  what  Mrs.  Herring 
says.  I  might  not  care  for  him  a  bit/'  A  moment  later 
her  lips  pounced  hawk-like  on  the  fugitive  name.  "I've 
remembered!  It's  Brandor,"  she  cried,  "and  his  first 
name's  Rupert.  It's  just  come  back  to  me." 

The  Poet  heard  his  own  name  with  the  polite  grav- 
ity for  that  of  a  stranger — although  it  gratified  him  not 
a  little  to  mark  the  exultation  with  which  these  un- 
familiar lips  smacked  upon  it,  as  if  it  were  some  de- 
lectable sweetmeat. 

"  And  do  you  know  what  he  is !  "  the  girl  went  on, 
her  enthusiasm  kindling  again.  "  He  is  a  Poet.  Mamma 
knew  his  name  at  once.  As  soon  as  ever  I  told  her  she 
said:  'Why,  that's  the  Poet,  Bella.'  Mamma  has  read 
some  of  his  poetry.  One  was  in  such  lovely  heliotrope, 
with  a  teeny  bookmark.  I'd  love  to  see  a  real  Poet. 
Wouldn't  you?" 

The  Poet  smiled.     His  young  pride  was  pleasantly 


BELLA  27 

titillated.  He  said  to  himself:  "After  all!  Here  is 
Fame.  She  may  be  small  and  fickle  as  folk  report  her, 
but  the  dame  is  pleasant  featured."  And  his  interest 
in  the  golden-haired  girl  and  her  mother  deepened.  But 
his  ensuing  smile  had  no  trace  of  a  vanity  flattered. 

"Are  poets  so  different  from  other  people?" 

"  Poets  ? "  echoed  the  girl,  in  an  almost  shocked 
intensity  of  surprise,  as  if  his  question  had  assailed 
the  very  foundations  of  human  faith.  "O  my!  Yes. 
How  could  they  write  poetry  if  they  weren't  ?  "  And 
then  she  looked  at  him  as  if  her  gaze  were  embarking 
upon  a  new  survey  of  his  qualities.  "  Do  you  know — 
when  I  first  saw  you  this  morning — of  course,  it  was 
silly — I  wondered,  just  for  awhile,  if  you  were  Mr. 
Brandor.  I  hoped  you  would  be.  But  I  don't  mind 
a  bit  now." 

He  cried :  "  Good  gracious !  Is  there  much  of  the 
Poet  about  me  ?  Don't  say  that !  " 

Her  eyes  tested  his  features  again,  probing  them 
quietly  for  the  qualities  that  had  raised  the  supposition. 
Then  she  shook  her  head — though  not  emphatically, 
but  with  a  dubious  surrender  that  bows  to  overwhelm- 
ing reason.  "  I  thought — "  she  hazarded.  "  Your  hair 
— it's  rather  wavy,  isn't  it?  Mrs.  Herring  said  it  was. 
And  you  have  brown  eyes,  too,  haven't  you?  I  noticed 
those  at  once."  Other  confidences  were  plainly  in  sight 
to  succeed,  but  all  at  once  they  were  both  conscious 
of  a  radical  disturbance  in  the  elements  of  life  around 
them.  Streams  of  color  were  being  drained  from  the 
sands  in  all  directions,  like  dyes  running  in  the  wash. 
The  steadfast  intentness  of  life  that  had  marked  the 
embrasured  line  of  the  Parade  wall  was  broken.  A  tide 
of  parasols  suffused  the  terraces  and  crept  in  ascend- 
ing color  up  the  precipitous  zigzag  pathways  to  the 
Esplanade,  now  subdued  to  extinction  beneath  the  shel- 


28  BELLA 

tering  leafage  of  the  overhanging  trees,  now  blazing 
out  in  swift  transition  where  they  crossed  open  tracts 
of  sunlight.  Nursemaids  rose  hurriedly  to  their  feet, 
closing  books  and  twisting  novelettes,  and  straightening 
creased  skirts,  and  calling  imperatively  to  distant 
charges.  Everywhere  limbs  were  being  hurriedly  sub- 
mitted to  the  towel;  buckets  clanked  and  spades  trailed 
cliffward.  The  trams  passed  and  repassed  in  an  accel- 
erated service,  each  ascending  car  crowded  with  color. 
An  iridescent  pool  of  humanity  thickened  about  the 
beach  terminus,  whose  turnstiles  clicked  in  the  busy 
sunlight. 

The  Poet  said :  "  Hello !  "  and  drew  forth  afresh  the 
watch  whose  dial  had  excited  the  girl's  admiration. 
"  One  o'clock !  Who  would  have  thought  it !  " 

The  girl  repeated :  "  One  o'clock,"  and  said —  as  he 
expected  her  to  say — "  O  my !  You'll  have  to  excuse 
me,  please.  Leonie  will  be  waiting  dinner." 

He  handed  over  to  her  the  shoes  and  stockings  com- 
mitted to  his  care,  with  a  penitent  laugh. 

"  And  you've  never  paddled  at  all.  That's  my  fault. 
Do  forgive  me." 

She  said:  "O  my!  It  has  been  lovely.  Ever  so 
much  better  than  paddling.  Thank  you  such  a  lot.  I 
won't  put  the  stockings  on;  I'll  just  slip  into  the  shoes, 
Well,  then.  .  .  .  I've  got  to  go  up  there.  By  the  tram. 
Wherever's  my  penny!  Oh,  here  it  is." 

The  Poet  wished  her  a  pleasant  journey. 

"Which  way  are  you  going?"  the  girl  inquired. 

The  Poet  answered:  "Just  along  the  sands." 

"  Have  you  very  far  to  go  ?  " 

"  Not  so  very  far." 

"Further  than  me?" 

"Perhaps  a  little   further  than  you." 

"  I  shall  see  you  again,  shan't  I  ?  " 


BELLA  29 

"I  hope  so." 

"  I  hope  so,  too.  Lots  of  times.  Thank  you  ever 
so  much." 

She  tendered  him,  after  a  moment's  hesitation,  her 
soft  right  hand  with  the  ball  depending  from  it,  and 
took  reluctant  leave,  saying  innumerable  good-byes,  and 
going  backward  with  occasional  prudent  peeps  over  her 
shoulder  for  what  lay  beyond.  When  she  had  out- 
stepped the  radius  of  speech  she  prolonged  departure 
with  wavings  of  the  hand,  that  increased  in  friendship 
what  they  lost  in  proximity.  It  was  characteristic  of 
the  girl  that,  close  by  the  foot  of  the  tramway  station, 
he  perceived  her  in  amicable  discourse  with  some 
ragged  but  radiantly  independent  children,  cumbered 
with  a  very  big  and  crazy  perambulator,  which  they 
appeared  to  be  pushing  indiscriminately  in  all  directions, 
to  the  imminent  peril  of  its  occupant.  Even  here  she 
did  not  lose  sight  of  him,  but  turned  around  regularly 
to  maintain  the  attenuated  threads  of  their  acquaint- 
ance. He  watched  the  tram  that  took  her;  saw  it 
diminish  fleetly  up  the  cliff-side  and  shrink  to  a  stand- 
still at  the  summit,  and  the  descending  tram  augment 
to  the  point  where  both  were  coequal,  and  loom  out 
large,  as  if  they  had  exchanged  proportions  in  passing, 
drawing  an  elongated  cable  behind  it.  At  first  he  could 
not  distinguish  the  girl  in  the  tiny  crowd  of  reduced 
mortals  emerging  from  the  ascended  car,  but  his  sec- 
ond glance  showed  him  a  solitary  pigmy  figure  elevated 
on  the  third  bar  of  the  railings  bordering  the  Esplanade, 
that  waved  frantically  when  he  turned  his  head. 


IV 

THAT  was  the  beginning  of  their  friendship.  It 
was  renewed  on  the  morrow  by  the  Poet's  trap- 
ping her  by  accident  outside  his  door,  where  she  had  tip- 
toed in  the  wake  of  Louisa  for  a  surreptitious  peep  at 
him.  He  had  just  completed  his  toilet  after  an  early 
morning's  bathe,  and  came  upon  her  so  noiselessly  and 
unexpected  that  he  was  able  to  slip  both  hands  over 
her  eyes  from  behind,  and  ask  her  to  declare,  out  of 
the  resultant  darkness,  who  it  was. 

Her  delighted  "O  my!"  full  of  radiant  recogni- 
tion, left  no  doubt  as  to  her  knowledge  of  his  identity. 
"  It's  you !  How  you  did  frighten  me !  I  was  peeping 
through  the  door.  I  thought  at  first  it  must  be  Him! 
Whatever  should  I  have  done  if  it  had  been  ? " 

With  that  she  accompanied  him  into  the  room,  ask- 
ing :  "  May  I  ? "  as  she  did  so,  and  explaining  to  a 
flushed  and  somewhat  guilty- faced  Louisa :  "  Isn't  it 
lovely,  Louisa!  This  is  the  very  gentleman  I  was  talk- 
ing about  downstairs.  The  very  one.  He  caught  me 
peeping  through  the  door  just  now.  You  heard  him, 
didn't  you?  O  my!  He  put  both  his  hands  over  my 
eyes.  It's  splendid !  " 

Seen  at  close  quarters  and  by  comparison  with  the 
familiar  objects  of  a  room  the  girl  looked  bigger  than 
the  Poet's  recollection  had  retained  of  her  from  yester- 
day. His  ultimate  picture  of  her  had  been  that  of  a 
mere  child,  whose  golden  head — at  a  guess — might  have 
passed  easily  beneath  his  outstretched  arm ;  memory  hav- 

30 


BELLA  31 

ing  been  tricked  into  minimizing  the  girl's  dimensions 
By  the  standard  of  her  childish  prattle.  But  truth  was 
she  stood  within  a  head  of  him.  Her  limbs  had  the 
promise  of  length,  not  far  off  fulfillment;  her  body 
moved  already  with  that  just  perceptible  slender  bal- 
ance preconscious  of  height.  Her  face  was  less  rotund 
than  he  had  figured;  the  cheeks  sleek  and  flat  instead 
of  salient,  as  though  indicative  of  a  lengthening  change 
to  come.  But  the  eyebrows  were  not  less  level  than 
he  had  noted  them,  and  the  deep  gray  eyes  beneath 
were  suffused  with  an  extraordinary  childish  softness. 
The  whole  face  radiated  the  candor  of  youth;  its  ex- 
pression as  open  and  unchary  as  the  speech  that  passed 
her  lips.  Her  gaze  had  the  disconcerting  power  of 
scrutiny  that  is  youth's  unmistakable  emblem.  The 
adolescent  teens  show,  for  the  most  part,  shy  and  shift- 
ing eyes,  ready  to  let  fall  their  look  at  the  first  chal- 
lenge— eyes  that  take  their  observations  promiscuously 
and  by  stealth,  as  though  conscious  that  knowledge  is 
forbidden  fruit,  to  be  picked  unseen.  But  Bella's  eyes 
fastened  frankly  on  to  other  eyes,  as  they  would  have 
fixed  upon  a  flower  whose  function  is  to  be  regarded. 
Her  sight  was  of  the  thirsty  suctional  sort  that  lays 
lips  to  the  object  viewed,  and  drinks  its  fill,  childishly 
unashamed  of  the  length  and  copiousness  of  the 
draught.  Now  and  again  the  Poet  was  amused  to  de- 
tect her  studying  his  necktie,  or  absorbing  the  shade  of 
his  socks,  which  were,  this  morning,  heliotrope;  or  at- 
taching a  large  gaze  of  observation  to  his  hair.  When 
thus  occupied,  her  look,  as  a  rule,  grew  curiously  neu- 
tral, as  if  her  eyes  were  too  intent  upon  their  exercise 
to  publish  any  record  of  what  they  saw — a  charac- 
teristic disquieting,  no  doubt,  to  those  who  felt  the  stock 
of  their  personal  merits  unequal  to  this  visual  drain. 
But  the  sincerity  of  her  gaze  amused  and  pleased  the 


32  BELLA 

Poet.     When  he  saw  the  gray  limpet  eyes  affix  them- 
selves to  some  feature  of  him  newly  noted,  his  heart 
smiled,  and  his  own  eyes  danced  until,  at  times,  the 
girl's  gaze  was  attracted  in  turn,  like  a  spectator  to  the 
sight  of  some  merrymaking,  curious  to  learn  the  cause. 
Not  that  Bella's  eyes  were  invariably  undemonstrative 
in  operation.     There,  again,  the  sign  of  youthfulness 
showed  in  her.    At  mere  contact  with  a  quality  or  ob- 
ject cared  for,  their  gray  steadfastness  could  break  up 
instantly  into  beams  of  almost  adoration.     Even  at  the 
mention  of  a  flavor  to  her  liking,  or  a  flower  beloved, 
or  a  property  admired,  or  an  action  praised,  the  gray 
eyes  grew  bright  to  a  degree  almost  incredible,   suf- 
fusing her  very  flesh  with  the  essence  of  their  gladness. 
Conversely,  when  her  mood  was  sad,  all  the  light  sang 
down  in  them,  and  they  became  at  once  mere  pits  of 
sorrow  or  compassion,  soft  and  dim  and  shady.     The 
Poet  took  a  deepening  pleasure  in   the   sight  of   this 
expressive  face,  watching  the  flashes  of  animation  come 
and  go.     It  was  a  countenance,   he  thought,   inviting 
contemplation.    The  patient  angler  of  expression  might 
sit  with  profit  here,  beside  his  rod  and  line,  and  study 
its  placid  surface  for  the  sight  of  those  delicious  un- 
dercurrents that  stirred  it,  even  though  not  much  of 
substance  came  to  his  hook. 

She  did  not  wear  this  morning  the  white  tunic  and 
blue  serge  skirt  of  yesterday,  but  in  its  stead  a  cool 
lawn  frock,  girdled  with  a  chamois  belt,  silver  buckled. 
On  her  head  she  carried  a  pretty  adaptation  of  the 
rustic  sunbonnet,  that  outlined  the  oval  of  her  cheek 
and  caused  the  golden  hair  to  fall  more  compactly  on 
her  shoulders.  A  double  string  of  coral  traced  a  pink 
line  around  her  neck,  and  now  and  again,  by  an  action 
perhaps  more  natural  than  elegant — though  for  all  that 


BELLA  33 

it  seemed  to  suit  her — she  insinuated  her  chin  between 
the  necklet  and  her  throat,  and  took  the  string  of  coral 
in  her  teeth.  But  the  woman  looked  out  of  her  eyes 
the  moment  they  caught  sight  of  the  mirror  over  the 
mantelpiece,  and  the  girl's  hand  obeyed  the  call  of  her 
reflection  as  a  soldier  might  respond  to  a  trumpet  call. 
In  two  deft  instinctive  touches  to  her  hair  and  sun- 
bonnet,  the  Poet  had  a  momentary  glimpse  of  the  girl's 
mother,  and  extemporized  for  himself  a  picture  of  Mrs. 
Dysart  out  of  the  quick  reciprocal  arching  of  Bella's 
brows.  It  amused  him  to  note  how  these  two  faces, 
actual  and  reflected,  grew  naturally  grave  and  conse- 
quential at  the  sight  of  each  other;  how  the  lips  com- 
pressed, the  eyes  shone  keen  and  critical,  and  the  heads 
assumed  a  poise  of  watchfulness  that  showed  dignity 
awake  and  on  her  guard.  It  was  but  a  flash,  whilst 
the  girl's  finger  touched  her  hat  and  hair,  but  how 
feminine!  The  latent  instinct  of  vanity  aroused — that 
is  as  proper  to  the  sex  as  its  becoming  blushes — ran  the 
gamut  of  the  girl's  body,  for  she  slipped  her  thumbs 
into  her  belt  as  if  to  liberate  some  constricted  portion 
of  her  stature,  and  bridled  in  her  shoes  for  height 
with  a  pretty  grace.  And  yet  the  action  was  not  really 
vain,  and  convicted  her  of  no  untimely  pride.  It  was 
but  a  gesture  imitated  and  acquired;  an  admired  trick 
of  her  mother's,  probably,  picked  up  like  the  words 
from  her  mother's  vocabulary  whose  outward  dimen- 
sions the  girl  might  know  and  worship  and  yet  lack 
knowledge  of  what  they  held. 

But  first  her  lips  were  too  brimful  of  O  my's  this 
morning  to  pay  attention  to  any  longer  words.  Every- 
thing was  O  my! — the  room,  the  sunlight  filling  it,  the 
breakfast  table,  the  Poet  himself.  To  think  it  was  Him ! 
And,  excuse  her — but  he  was  differently  dressed  this 


34  BELLA 

morning,  wasn't  he?  How  funny!  She  was  differently 
dressed,  too.  Had  he  noticed?  The  frock  made  her 
look  taller,  didn't  it?  O  my!  Say  it  did! 

But  that  was  his  breakfast  on  the  table,  wasn't 
it!  She'd  had  hers  long  ago.  Perhaps  she  was  dis- 
turbing him?  No?  Might  she  stay  a  bit?  Did  he 
mind?  And  he  must  tell  her  how  he  liked  the  toast. 
She  was  afraid  one  corner  was  just  a  teeny  trifle 
burned,  but  Mrs.  Herring  had  scraped  that.  Look- 
nobody  could  tell.  Should  she  lift  the  cover  off  the  fish 
for  him?  It  was  fish,  wasn't  it?  Yes,  she'd  seen  it 
fried.  Her  breakfast  had  been  porridge.  Did  he  like 
porridge?  So  did  she.  She  loved  it. 

...  As  for  mamma,  in  answer  to  the  Poet's  polite 
inquiry,  mamma,  O  my!  mamma  was  ever  so  much 
better.  Bella  had  been  into  her  bedroom. with  the  tea, 
and  poured  it  out  for  her  and  put  the  milk  and  sugar 
in,  and  sat  on  the  side  of  the  bed.  Mamma  looked 
lovely  in  bed.  She  had  the  sweetest  darlingest  color 
in  her  cheeks,  and  her  eyes  were  the  most  beautiful 
eyes  Bella  had  ever  seen.  The  Poet  would  say  so,  too. 
Dark  gray  eyes — ever  so  much  darker  than  Bella's — 
with  a  kind  of  violet  network  running  all  over  them 
(did  he  understand  what  she  meant?)  and  such  thick 
long  lashes — as  long  as  this,  whereat  Bella  took  the 
fourth  finger  of  her  left  hand  between  the  thumb  and 
forefinger  of  her  right,  and  indicated  for  the  Poet  a 
degree  of  length  little  short  of  miraculous  when  applied 
to  the  standard  of  the  human  lash.  Mamma's  eye- 
lashes were  nearly  black.  Bella  loved  to  rub  her  cheek 
against  them.  That  felt  so  funny !  Quite  like  the  softest 
teeny  little  brushes.  And  then,  mamma's  hair  looked 
lovely  in  two  great  plaits  tied  with  pink  silk,  one  on 
each  shoulder  like  a  bell  rope,  right  onto  the  quilt. 
Bella  had  unplaited  each  in  turn  this  morning,  to  the 


BELLA  35 

very  top,  and  then  replaited  them  all  the  way  down 
again,  herself,  and  tied  the  silk  bows  afresh,  and  made 
— as  Mrs.  Dysart  said — "  a  new  mamma  of  her,"  and 
cried :  "  O  mamma,  what  a  sweet  you  look ! "  and  flung 
both  arms  around  her  once  again,  impelled  by  the  call 
of  her  mother's  beauty,  to  further  kisses.  The  Poet 
ought  to  see,  she  rapturously  declared,  her  mother's 
sleeping-cap.  Such  a  dear.  It  was  like  a  teeny  darling 
bonnet  of  white  lace,  fitting  close  to  the  head,  and 
drawn  to  the  forehead  with  quarter-inch  pink  ribbon 
of  the  same  shade  as  that  in  her  plait-bows.  Bella 
was  going  to  have  one  like  it  when  she  grew  older.  And 
should  she  tell  the  Poet  what  sort  of  bed- jacket  her 
mother  wore  this  morning?  Should  she?  Well,  then 
.  .  .  and  the  girl  plunged  into  a  loving  exposition  of 
soft  and  quilted  silks,  with  lace  insertions,  and  reversed 
cuffs  to  show  the  lining. 

She  led  the  Poet  into  this  verbal  replica  of  her 
mother's  bedroom,  where  Mrs.  Dysart  sipped  tea  with 
an  elbow  embedded  in  her  pillow,  holding  the  fragile  cup 
beneath  her  lips  in  the  smoothest  and  whitest  of  fingers ; 
showed  him,  too,  the  table  by  Mrs.  Dysart's  bed,  with 
the  bowl  of  violets  that  her  mother  loved,  and  the  read- 
ing candle-lamp,  in  case  her  mother  could  not  sleep,  and 
the  spread  of  books  to  hand.  Mamma  loved  books.  She 
had  lots  of  books  from  what  her  little  daughter  valiantly 
called  the  "  libery."  And  others  she  bought.  Mamma 
was  always  buying  books.  Wherever  she  moved,  she 
left  from  chair  to  chair  a  book  behind  her,  reposed  face 
downward  in  the  cushions.  And  magazines — O  my! 
Sometimes  mamma  was  almost  buried  in  them.  'She 
would  sit  on  the  sofa  and  let  them  slip  one  after  another 
to  the  floor,  until  they  reached  her  knees,  with  Bella  at 
her  feet  intent  upon  the  reversion. 

All  little  verbal  thumbnail  sketches  done  at  lightning 


36  BELLA 

pace  by  Bella's  facile  lips,  that  showed  the  Poet  irradi- 
ating glimpses  of  this  much-mentioned  mother.     Bella's 
lips  had  the  instinctive  fluency  of  expression  that  is  of 
the  essence  of  youth  and  of  the  artist.     Always  they 
were  engaged  it  seemed,  in  re-creating  things  seen,  or 
emotions    experienced.      What    a    pencil    is    for   many 
children,  speech   was  for  her.     Her  industry   amazed 
the  Poet,  fascinated  him.     Now  and  again  she  would 
correct  a  sentence  the  moment  uttered,  as  another  child 
might  re-draw  a  faulty  line,  saying :  "  No,  and  it  wasn't 
like  that.    I  know  what  it  was  like.    It  was  like — "  sub- 
stituting  this,   or   the   other.      But   always   her   word- 
pictures  had  the  charm  and  force  of  simplicity — never 
suffered  from  elaboration.     With  her  the  thing  seen, 
when  once   she  surrendered  to  the  pastime,   was   the 
thing  spoken.     Eyes   and  .lips   worked  in   such    quick 
sympathy    and    concord    that    at   moments,    when    she 
turned  her  gaze  upon  an  object,  her  spoken  comment 
on  it  seemed  almost  to  precede  the  look.    And  her  eyes 
— for  all  that  a  gray  iris  symbolizes  dreams  and  the 
gentle  state  of   vision  that  shows   more  like   a  medi- 
tation  over   sight   than   a   direct   employment    of    it — 
her  eyes  were  sieves  for  extracting  the  fine  material 
particles  from  all  they  saw.     Their  vigilance  was  ex- 
traordinary;  they   passed   over   nothing,    save   through 
politeness.    At  each  step  of  their  progress  they  picked 
up  a  fact  or  an  impression.     By  them  no  object  was 
deemed   unworthy.     They    worked    with   a    swift    and 
thorough    industry    amid    the    world    of    natural    and 
familiar  objects,  like  a  French  chiffonnier  amid  rags. 
Or,  to  choose  from  more  poetic  metaphor  (if  not  less 
truthful)  like  bees  amid  the  clover  or  the  blossoms  of 
the  lime;  and  perhaps  resembling  most  the  bee  in  this, 
that  her  labor  turned  to  sweetness.     No  malice  lurked 
in  her  lips;  for  all  their  volubility  they  never  venomed 


BELLA  37 

truth — and  it  is  hard  to  talk  mucn  and  utter  nothing 
that  is  unkind.  If  they  registered  a  failing  or  a  fault 
it  was  without  a  particle  of  passion.  She  nurtured  no 
hatred  against  the  forms  of  authority,  like  so  much  of 
childhood,  but  seemed  to  have  an  innate  talent  for 
obedience,  obeying  through  a  sort  of  generosity  that 
would  have  regarded  refusal  of  compliance  as  a  mean- 
ness, and  perceiving  no  grandeur  in  any  wilful  breakage 
of  the  law. 


AS  the  Poet  consumed  his  breakfast  the  girl's  voice 
kept  him  company;  now  from  the  table  end,  by 
the  side  of  him,  where  at  times  she  came  and  stood 
with  one  hand  on  his  chair-back  and  the  other  on  the 
breakfast  cloth,  watching  with  politest  interest  the  ply 
of  his  knife  and  fork,  and  following  his  movements 
with  such  attentiveness  that  (to  the  Poet's  mirthful 
fancy)  they  appeared  to  be  sharing  a  meal;  quick  at 
anticipating  his  needs:  "You  want  the  toast,  don't 
you  ? "  "  You've  nearly  drunk  your  coffee,  haven't 
you?  Shall  you  want  any  more?  Let  me  pour  it  out 
for  you.  I  love  pouring  out  things." 

At  such  moments  the  girl's  clear  voice  fell  upon 
his  hearing  with  an  effect  of  coolness,  as  if  she  were 
blowing  gently  on  her  porridge.  Then,  by  the  sudden 
silence  that  followed,  he  knew  she  studied  the  parting 
in  his  hair  or  fed  busily  on  his  profile.  At  another 
time  the  sound  of  her  voice,  in  different  degrees  of  rap- 
ture and  remoteness,  reached  him  from  the  balcony. 
O  my!  She  loved  balconies.  Didn't  he?  She  wished 
they  had  a  balcony  at  Cromwell  Lodge.  But  what  a 
pity  it  didn't  run  all  the  way  round,  so  that  you  might 
go  out  by  one  window,  and  come  in  by  the  other.  That 
would  be  lovely. 

And  all  the  while  that  she  reveled  in  its  glories  her 
lips  reflected  for  the  Poet  the  things  she  saw;  a  ship 
in  the  harbor  with  a  dingy  red  funnel  and  some  dis- 
colored figures  on  its  smokestack.  Look!  There  was 

38 


BELLA  39 

a  teeny  jet  of  the  whitest  steam  clinging  to  it — just  like 
•shaking  a  lace  handkerchief.  Listen!  The  ship  was 
whistling.  Did  he  hear?  Hoo-ooo! — and  the  girl's 
voice,  in  a  soft  hum,  echoed  companionably  the  trailing 
sound.  Or  it  was  a  noiseless  landau  she  pictured  for 
him,  moving  slowly  by  on  the  sun-warmed  impression- 
able asphalt.  The  driver  sat  all  askew  on  the  box  with 
his  legs  twisted  ever  so  many  times  around  one  another. 
He  kept  winding  and  unwinding  the  whiplash  about 
the  stock.  Where  the  horse  had  just  put  its  foot  there 
rose  a  great  bead  of  jet.  The  sea  blinded  you  to  look 
at  it !  It  was  all  alive  with  sparkles.  O  my !  The  sun 
felt  fearfully  hot;  the  poor  balustrade  was  burning  and 
blistered.  There!  Now  the  tram  was  off  again  .  .  . 
twenty,  thirty,  forty,  fifty.  Here  came  the  other,  rising 
over  the  trees  just  like  a  big  balloon. 

And  then,  after  such  expeditions  to  the  balcony,  she 
came  back  to  the  table-end  again,  keen  to  blend  in 
equable  proportions  these  inner  with  those  outer  won- 
ders. To  think  he  was  a  Poet — a  real  Poet! — the  first 
she  had  ever  seen.  He  was  a  Poet,  wasn't  he?  To 
which  the  Poet,  the  question  being  put,  answered : 

"Jenkins  says  not." 

"Who  is  Jenkins?" 

"Jenkins  is  a  beast." 

"  I  think  so,  too.  Why  does  he  say  that  ?  Because 
he  doesn't  know  any  better  ? " 

"  I  think  because  he  doesn't  know  any  worse.  If  he 
did,  probably  he  would  say  it  of  me." 

"  Is  Jenkins  a  friend  of  yours  ?  " 

"  Well,  I  never  thought  of  that.  Perhaps,  now  you 
mention  it,  he  is." 

"  Mamma  says  friends  always  make  the  worst  ene- 
mies. She  says  a  friend  is  your  enemy  to  be,  and  an 
enemy  your  friend  that  was.  And  it's  easy  to  forgive 


40  BELLA 

an  enemy,  and  one  of  the  best  ways  to  get  on  in  the 
world.  But  it's  quite  useless  to  forgive  a  friend,  for  if 
once  you  forgive  them  they  never  forgive  you.  She 
says  we  ought  to  be  grateful  to  our  enemies,  for  without 
those  the  world  would  be  a  very  lonely  place  to  live  in." 

"You  make  me  envy  you  your  mamma." 

"You  would  love  her.  She  is  a  dear."  The  girl's 
eyes  softened  from  rapture  to  solicitude.  "  Haven't  you 
a  mamma  of  your  own  ? " 

The  Poet  shook  his  head.  Her  eyes  shed  their  light 
and  deepened  a  further  degree. 

"And  no  father?"  she  asked  sorrowfully,  as  though 
compassion  anticipated  that  his  answer  would  be  in  the 
negative. 

"  No." 

"And  no  sisters?" 

"  None." 

"And  no  brothers?" 

"Not  one." 

"Only  just  you?" 

"  Only  just  me." 

"O  my!" 

The  words  came  after  a  pause,  mournfully  pro- 
longed, and  charged  with  a  whole  accumulation  of 
wonder  and  pity.  She  stooped  a  little,  lowering  her 
brow  to  take  stock  of  the  Poet  by  the  light  of  this 
melancholy  avowal,  and  gazed  at  him  for  quite  awhile 
with  a  look  both  mute  and  moist. 

"  Was  it  a  long  time  ago  ? "  she  inquired  in  a 
lowered  voice  for  passing  the  threshold  of  sorrow. 

"  Much  longer  than  I  can  remember,"  the  Poet  said. 
"  I  was  only  a  child  when  my  mother  died." 

"And  when  your  father  died?" 

"  I  was  not  much  older  then." 


• 


Let  me  pour  it  out  for  you  '  " 


BELLA  41 

"  How  much  older  ?  " 

"  Perhaps  four  or  five  years  older.  I  just  remem- 
ber hearing  a  terrible  bell,  and  peeping  out  through  the 
blinds  at  some  big  black  coaches  drawn  up  before  the 
house." 

"  Those  would  be  mourning  coaches — and  a  minute 
bell.  Did  you  cry  ?  " 

"  Perhaps  I   did.     I  can't  remember  that." 

"  I  should  think  you  would.  Most  people  cry  at 
funerals,  don't  they  ?  And  then  your  own  father !  Was 
he  a  nice  father?  Of  course,  he  would  be.  Was  that 
the  father  you  got  the  beautiful  watch  from?  ...  I 
thought  so.  Let  me  just  look  at  it  again,  please." 

The  Poet  drew  forth  once  more  the  gleaming 
chronicler  of  time,  that  had  measured  out  his  father's 
final  pulses,  and  held  it  for  the  girl's  eyes  to  mourn 
over.  She  took  it  anew  into  her  fingers,  gazing  now 
upon  its  dial  with  the  reverence  for  a  dead  face. 

"  Do  you  often  think  of  your  father  when  you  look 
at  this?" 

"  Sometimes." 

"And  wish  he  was  alive?" 

"  Very  often." 

She  released  the  watch  with  a  chastened  "  Thank 
you,"  as  if  even  gratitude  must  be  hushed  before  this 
relic  of  the  dead.  She  viewed  its  disposal  with  rev- 
erent eyes  for  an  interment. 

"  And  afterward  ? "  she  resumed,  in  the  happier 
voice  that  mourners  permit  themselves  when  the  cere- 
mony is  over.  "  Who  took  care  of  you  then  ? — for  you 
couldn't  take  care  of  yourself.  You  were  only  a  little 
boy.  How  big?  Half  as  big  as  me?  Yes?" 

"  Then,  of  course,  I  had  a  guardian." 

The  girl  contributed:  "Yes,  of  course,"  with  the 
4 


42  BELLA 

most  assured  acquiescence,  and  added  hurriedly: 
"What  is  a  guardian?  You'll  think  me  a  dreadful 
dunce.  I  am.  I  don't  know  anything." 

From  the  Poet's  definition  of  a  guardian  they  passed 
to  the  guardian's  name,  and  the  girl  cried :  "  Mr. 
Pendlip?  Why!  that's  the  gentleman  that  was  to  have 
taken  these  rooms ! "  And  the  Poet  said :  "  The  very 
one." 

And  in  next  to  no  time  the  girl  had  elicited  all  about 
Mr.  Pendlip's  side  whiskers  and  his  portentous  deep 
voice;  and  Mrs.  Pendlip,  and  Daisy;  and  the  big  Geor- 
gian house  on  the  Surrey  Downs  where  the  Poet  was 
born,  that  was  let  furnished  to  a  Scotch  gentleman ;  and 
the  house  in  Dulwich  (Dulwich  ?  Bella  knew  Dulwich ! 
Dulwich?  O  my!)  where  Mr.  Pendlip  lived,  and  where 
the  Poet  spent  his  boyhood. 

During  their  conversation  the  girl's  left  hand  had 
slid  imperceptibly  along  the  polished  back  of  the  Poet's 
chair,  and  her  face,  in  her  interest,  had  come  very  close 
to  his  own. 

Did  he  (after  a  careful  perusal  of  his  countenance) 
did  he  wish  he  had  a  sister?  Did  he?  The  Poet  an- 
swered guardedly  that  it  all  depended.  Depended  on 
what?  On  many  things.  On  the  sister,  for  instance. 

"What  sort  of  a  sister  would  you  like?"  she  in- 
quired, and  as  he  seemed  to  hesitate  for  an  answer, 
prompted  him :  "  One  like  me?  " 

That  admitted  of  only  one  reply.  He  told  her: 
"One  like  you,"  and  she  breathed:  "O  my!"  in  her 
most  grateful  voice.  "  Do  you  wish  I  was  your  sister  ?  " 

He  wished  that  very  much  indeed,  and  the  girl 
wished  it,  too. 

"  You'll  call  me  Bella,  won't  you  ?  "  she  begged  him 
in  a  sudden  outburst  of  sisterly  affection,  and  he 
said:  "Oh,  yes.  I'll  call  you  Bella,  won't  I?  And 


BELLA  43 

Belladonna  for  short,  and  Mercurius  Vivus  when  you 
are  very,  very  good,  and  Ipecacuanha  when  you're 
naughty." 

"  And  what  shall  I  call  you  ? "  the  girl  asked  him, 
when  her  appreciation  had  subsided. 

The  Poet  told  her  with  the  utmost  cordiality :  "  Any- 
thing you  like,  Bella,"  a  latitude  of  permission  that 
appeared  to  trouble  her. 

"What  would  you  like?" 

"  I   declare  I've  no  choice." 

"Must  I  call  you  Mr.  Brandor?" 

"Not  if  you  don't  want." 

"  I  do  want — at  least  .  .  ."  and  then  she  asked  if 
he  would  like  her  to  call  him  Rupert. 
The  Poet  said  he  should  love  it. 

"  And  so  should  I ! "  she  concurred  with  fervor. 
"I'll  call  you  Rupert,  won't  I?  Or  Roo?  How  would 
you  like  Roo?"  Her  lips  and  eyes  pounced  on  the 
abbreviation  together  as  if  they  had  discovered  treasure- 
trove.  "That's  better  still,  isn't  it!  Roo!  That's 
splendid.  I  love  it !  " 

And  they  would  go  onto  the  sands,  wouldn't  they, 
Roo! — like  yesterday;  and  sit  just  where  they  sat  be- 
fore, close  to  the  photographer  with  the  bristles  on  his 
chin  and  yellow  ringers  and  dirty  white  boots.  And 
this  time  they  would  paddle,  wouldn't  they?  What! 
Both  of  them?  He  would?  Really? 

O  my! 


VI 

BELLA  delighted  him,  fascinated  him.  She  was  a 
little  musical  human  instrument;  a  perfect  scale 
of  the  purest,  tenderest  emotions.  Short  in  compass 
toward  the  bass  she  might  be,  but  the  years  (he  feared 
to  think)  would  soon  repair  this  lack  in  her,  and  add 
the  deeper,  deadlier  notes  of  passion  and  experience. 
So  far  not  one  note  was  out  of  tune.  Her  scale  had 
been  regulated  by  no  blundering  earthly  tuner.  Her 
pitch  remained  unaltered.  No  tonal  fraction  of  con- 
vention had  been  cunningly  distributed  through  her 
little  large  soul's  octave  as  in  the  case  of  its  strictly 
mechanical  counterpart,  for  Bella  had  but  one  key,  and 
that  of  candor. 

Such  an  instrument,  in  the  Poet's  fancy,  was  like 
a  return  to  the  virgin's  harpsichord,  with  its  quaintly 
plucked  and  passionless,  but  real  and  truthful  music. 
For  Bella,  he  felt,  was  emphatically  real,  emphatically 
true,  filled  to  the  lips  with  frankness  and  sincerity. 
It  may  have  been,  after  all,  not  so  much  a  virtue 
in  her  as  a  quality,  since  a  virtue  may  be  held  to 
lie  in  the  effort,  and  a  quality  in  the  ease  with  which 
we  do  a  thing — silence  being  no  virtue  in  the  dumb. 
And  Bella  could  not  help  being  real,  being  true;  these 
things  were  of  the  fundamental  essence  of  her  nature 
— almost  as  unalterable  as  the  color  of  her  eyes,  or  the 
flow  of  her  golden  hair.  If  her  lips  had  uttered  coun- 
terfeit coin  those  gray  eyes  would  have  reproached 
them.  She  might  perhaps  have  lied  for  love  (love 

44 


BELLA  45 

makes  liars  of  us  all)  but  love  alone  could  be  cruel 
enough  to  force  the  barb  of  a  lie  across  that  reluctant 
little  mouth,  and  the  silent  suffering  of  her  deceit  would 
have  been  its  own  sanctification. 

For  one  thing,  Bella  had  nothing  to  conceal.  Con- 
cealment is  the  first  letter  of  a  lie.  Her  innocence  was 
often  guilty  of  raising  blushes  on  the  cheek  of  experi- 
ence, for  purity  of  heart  alone  is  proof  against  em- 
barrassment, and  knowledge  is  the  chief  complicating 
factor  in  life.  Between  good  and  bad — that  shady  mid- 
way territory  of  conduct  where  most  of  the  human 
misdemeanors  lie — a  wide  and  trackless  region  reigned 
in  Bella's  mind.  Wickedness  she  only  knew  by  hear- 
say, by  repute;  like  some  faraway  country  on  the  map, 
as  remote  and  as  unreal  as  the  Greenland  of  the  hymn. 
The  sins  she  was  familiar  with  and  fought  were  such 
as  civilized  society  has  learned  long  since  to  tolerate — 
selfishness,  or  meanness,  or  duplicity,  all  of  them  rec- 
ognized by  the  highest  statesmen  and  philosophers  to 
be  admirable  constituents  in  individual  and  national 
character.  Her  every  note  was  struck  with  the  fear- 
less ignorance  of  evil;  one  felt  at  once  how  innocent 
she  was  by  the  bold  way  in  which  she  avoided  nothing, 
for  one  can  sound  the  depth  of  people's  knowledge  as 
much  by  the  discretion  of  their  silence  as  the  frank- 
ness of  their  speech. 

In  her  laughter,  like  an  octave  of  bells,  one  did  not 
hear  above  the  chime  the  faint  supertones  of  false  har- 
monics, that  mingle  sometimes  with  the  less  unstudied 
laughter  of  riper  life. 

Bella's  laughter  had  a  curious  deficiency  in  the 
quality  of  mirth;  the  acrid  element  was  altogether  lack- 
ing in  it.  Even  when  she  cried :  "  O  my,  how  funny !  " 
and  her  gray  eyes  kindled  and  the  lips  drew  apart,  one 
felt  that  frank  good  will  and  not  amusement  prompted 


46  BELLA 

the  demonstration.  Mirth,  with  her,  seemed  but  a  meet- 
ing ground  for  the  sincerities ;  a  point  where  eyes  could 
mutually  sparkle  and  share  friendship.  Sometimes,  too, 
the  joke  made,  her  laughter  played  the  hostess,  urging 
others  to  enjoy  to  its  full  the  fare  while  herself  feasted 
mostly  on  their  indulgence,  catching  pleasure  by  re- 
flection, and  beamingly  glad. 

Dear  Bella  Dysart !  She  was  a  very  clean  slate  in- 
deed. No  one  had  ever  written  a  bad  word  on  it,  or 
if  one  had,  Time  (who  is  always  kind  to  the  young) 
rubbed  it  off  again  before  Bella  had  really  read  it.  She 
was  one  of  the  happiest  consequences  of  the  most  care- 
ful love  and  systematic  neglect.  Such  love  would  have 
spoiled  many  children,  such  neglect  would  have  ruined 
most;  but  beneath  these  influences  Bella  remained  un- 
changed in  her  starlike  steadfastness  of  self.  Deep 
down  in  the  placid  well  of  her  soul  it  seemed  as  if  a 
planet  were  at  anchor.  At  her  mother's  knee  she  had 
received  small  periodic  sacraments  of  knowledge,  and 
the  spirit  of  much  love.  Love  has  a  quick  intuition, 
and  in  time  she  learned  to  read.  Beyond  this  her  edu- 
cation (if  that  be  not  too  long  a  word  to  describe  the 
absence  of  it)  was  scrapped  assiduously  together  from 
all  and  the  most  inauthentic  sources — from  her  mother, 
from  her  nurses,  from  books,  from  pictures,  and  from 
the  depths  of  her  own  imagination.  In  any  case  she 
had  gathered  it  all  like  a  garland  of  wild  flowers  with 
her  own  fingers,  bringing  the  nosegays  from  time  to 
time  to  her  mother's  side,  for  Mrs.  Dysart's  joy  and 
commendation.  The  touch  of  her  mother's  hand  upon 
the  girl's  hair,  the  sound  of  her  mother's  indulgent 
laughter  at  Bella's  faults,  her  mother's  kisses,  the  sight 
of  her  mother's  gray  and  violet  eyes  as  she  pressed  back 
the  childish  face  to  gaze  into  those  wells  of  light  re- 
flecting her  own,  had  contributed  a  larger  share  to 


BELLA  47 

Bella's  wisdom  than  any  drawn  from  the  written  symbol 
or  the  printed  page. 

For  Mrs.  Dysart's  love,  where  it  touched  her  child, 
had  been  too  soft  a  quality  for  discipline  or  training. 
Those  practical  ambitions  or  anxieties  that  lend  the  sub- 
stance of  severity  to  other  parents'  loves  were  lacking  in 
hers.  Whatever  cares  or  fears  she  had  were  held  to  her- 
self. The  moment  her  eye  rested  on  Bella  it  softened, 
and  all  her  gaze  grew  into  a  caress.  Love  for  her 
daughter  was  like  the  fleecy  eiderdown  upon  Bella's 
bed ;  something  to  keep  the  girl  safe  and  warm,  to  shield 
her  from  knowledge  rather  than  to  inure  her  to  it — an 
indulgent  coverlet  of  affection  in  which  all  the  girl's  de- 
ficiencies were  swathed  and  hid.  True,  now  and  again 
Bella  knew  the  warm  weight  of  her  mother's  arm,  laid 
instructively  around  her  neck,  and  watched  her  mother's 
finger  trace  its  passage  down  some  page  of  print;  or 
heard  her  mother's  lips  distilling  knowledge  with  the 
tenderness  of  love,  or  laugh  over  her  with  the  lenient 
amusement  for  a  mistake — that  is,  all  told,  a  tribute 
to  it :  "  Why,  Bella !  What  a  funny  girl  you  are ! " 
scenting  the  sweet  fragrance  of  her  daughter's  faults 
as  if  they  had  been  blossoms. 

And  yet  Bella  was  not  ignorant.  For  if  the  natural 
sentiments  be  sound,  it  is  surprising  how  little  learning 
is  needed  to  complete  a  character.  Other  girls  in  Bella's 
circumstances  with  more  brains  and  less  love  might 
have  grown  up  blunted  and  deficient,  beings  of  temper 
and  perversity,  repositories  of  passion  and  discontent. 
Bella,  because  by  Providence  her  disposition  had  been 
suited  to  its  fare,  was  happy,  kind,  and  tractable,  by 
instinct  comprehending  obedience  as  a  mode  of  love,  and 
love  as  an  element  of  life  itself,  like  the  breath  she 
drew  into  her  nostrils,  or  the  food  she  fed  on.  Into 
all  she  did,  this  quality  of  affection  entered.  Every- 


48  BELLA 

thing  she  learned,  or  saw,  or  heard,  was  transmuted 
by  Bella's  nature  into  the  substance  of  love. 

Her  eye  was  quick  to  see,  and  her  ear  to  hear,  and 
her  tongue  to  imitate,  and  her  mind  to  remember.  De- 
spite Leonie's  occasional  denunciations  of  her  French, 
what  time  the  maid  viewed  her  world  biliously  saffron, 
she  spoke  it  very  rapidly  and  sweetly,  and  with  the 
prettiest  unaffected  accent.  It  would  have  done  a 
Frenchman's  heart  good  to  hear  the  beloved  sound  of 
the  blocked  "  g  "  through  her  pinched  and  narrow  nose ; 
or  the  intensity  with  which  she  rolled  out  such  a  word 
as  "  malheur-rrreuse." 

"  Depuis  que  j'ai  vu  Sylvandre 
Me  regarder  d'un  air  tendre, 
Mon  coeur  me  dit  a  chaque  instant, 
Peut-on  vivre  sans  tourment?  " 

sang  sometimes  little  Bella  to  the  quaintest  of  quaint 
airs  of  her  own  invention,  swinging  in  the  rocking-chair 
with  a  leg  tucked  under  her  frock  and  a  hand  clasped 
on  her  ankle.  The  words  she  had  picked  up  from  an 
old  cup  and  saucer,  that  bore  the  picture  of  a  florid 
shepherdess  in  a  quilted  frock,  with  white  stockings 
and  red  shoes,  and  a  Pompadour  hat,  and  a  crook  in  her 
hand  bedecked  with  a  ribbon. 

Bella's  French  was  the  gift  of  her  mother.  She  had 
known  and  loved  and  marveled  at  it  on  her  mother's  lips 
long  before  she  was  able  to  filter  it  through  her  own; 
slowly,  first  of  all  drop  by  drop  to  the  excitement  of  her 
wonder;  then  faster, -with  the  years,  till  at  last  it  became 
a  fluid  medium  of  her  thoughts  like  the  musical  flowing 
of  a  tap. 


VII 


FROM  her  mother  Bella  absorbed  all  the  better  part 
of  her  mother's  nature — that  resplendent  lunar 
portion  of  it  that  shone  perpetually  upon  the  child. 
Her  mother  had  never  been  angry  with  Bella;  Bella 
would  never  be  angry  with  anybody.  Her  love  for 
Mrs.  Dysart  was  supreme.  No  breath  of  fear  or  of 
distrust  or  of  those  transitory  hatreds  roused  in  child- 
hood by  the  enforcement  of  parental  power  ever  blew 
across  its  flame-like  quality  to  make  it  waver.  What- 
ever Mrs.  Dysart's  position  may  have  been  toward  the 
world,  or  her  attitude  toward  her  fellow-beings,  she 
had  but  one  face  for  Bella,  one  heart;  one  unalterable 
mind.  Bella  could  count  on  her  at  all  times,  under  all 
conditions,  was  never  beaten  back  upon  herself,  as  are 
so  many  children  at  the  inquiring  age  by  the  perplexing 
inconsistencies  of  those  that  rule  them;  for  all  the 
child's  offendings  there  followed  but  one  punishment, 
her  mother's  pardon — an  instrument  of  correction  as 
dangerous  as  Solomon's  rod,  and  for  little  Bella  in- 
finitely more  bitter.  For  what  can  the  sensitive  and 
conscientious  heart  do  but  mourn  when  those  it  has 
injured — however  unwittingly — will  levy  no  tax  upon 
the  fault?  And  at  least,  if  Mrs.  Dysart's  lenience  was 
censurable  from  some  strict  standpoints,  it  never  led  her 
daughter  from  the  truth.  Those  petty  falsehoods,  those 
tempting  side-paths  of  subterfuge  that  children  use  to 
slip  past  the  sleeping  anger  or  the  harsh  parental  word, 
had  no  existence  for  Bella.  Let  her  break  what  she 

49 


50  BELLA 

would,  the  crime  was  condoned.  At  most  it  made  but 
one  more  occasion  for  her  to  asperge  her  little  bosom 
with  sanctifying  tears,  to  enjoy  the  blessedness  of  her 
mother's  pardon,  and  taste  afresh  the  sweet  knowledge 
of  her  mother's  love. 

Love  was  Bella's  religion,  as  it  was  her  understand- 
ing, for  what  she  could  not  love  she  could  not  com- 
prehend. Her  creed,  condensed,  was  simply  this :  Love 
all,  hate  none.  It  is  a  very  neglected  child  indeed  that 
does  not  begin  life  with  a  prayer,  and  Bella  had  never 
been  so  neglected  as  that.  In  the  days  when  she  stood 
for  the  first  time  on  the  shore  of  the  vast  continent  of 
Speech,  and  vistas  of  dim  stupendous  words  stretched 
out  before  her  like  a  forest  of  trees,  Bella  had  learned 
to  pray  at  her  mother's  knee,  and  prayer  became  a 
solemn  garden,  sweet  and  circumscribed,  for  the  child 
to  play  in.  Often  and  often  she  would  wander  gravely 
within  its  precincts,  amid  the  words  that  had  no  mean- 
ing for  her  first  of  all,  but  touched  her  love  and  won- 
der, tall  spires  of  speech  that  seemed  to  spread  the 
softest  of  blossoms  high  above  her  head,  and  shed  their 
blessed  fragrance  on  the  girl's  uplifted  and  inquiring 
face. 

Of  the  religion  as  established  by  law,  Bella  knew 
very  little — less,  indeed,  than  many  grown-up  people, 
and  what  was  explained  to  her  by  successive  nurse- 
maids and  theological  domestics  puzzled  her  very  much. 
She  knew  that  God  lived  a  frightfully  long  way  off — 
far  beyond  the  topmost  stars,  that  were,  of  course,  the 
souls  of  little  dead  children  twinkling  in  Heaven.  Some- 
times when  she  went  to  bed  Bella  would  run  to  her  win- 
dow and  pull  aside  the  curtain  and  peer  eagerly  at  the 
firmament  of  lights  for  the  latest  intelligence  of  doings 
in  the  child-world,  and  cry,  with  almost  exultation: 


BELLA  51 

"  Look,  Leonie,"  or  "  Jeannette,"  or  "  Marie,"  as  the  case 
might  be,  "  O  my !  There's  a  lovely  new  star  twinkling 
over  there — such  a  beauty!  It  wasn't  there  when  I 
looked  last  night,  I  wonder  who  it  is.  It  must  be  a  big 
girl  this  time,  by  the  look  of  it."  And,  of  course,  Bella 
knew  that  the  thunder  was  God's  voice  in  anger,  though 
why  He  should  need  to  be  angry,  having  everything  He 
wished  for,  Bella  could  not  altogether  understand.  And 
she  knew  that  the  thunder-cloud  was  God's  mantle, 
wrapped  about  His  face,  and  that  the  fleecy  summer 
clouds  were  showers,  going  here  and  there  at  God's 
command  to  rain  upon  the  earth  in  dry  places ;  and  the 
rainbow  was  God's  promise  to  the  world,  and  where  its 
aerial  archway  sprung  from  the  ground  a  treasure  of 
gold  was  hid. 

Little  of  Bella's  theological  acquirement  emanated 
from  her  mother.  Mrs.  Dysart  followed  now  and  again 
her  daughter's  romantic  excursions  in  divinity  with  the 
outwardly  assentive,  the  inwardly  amused  and  wonder- 
ing smile:  "Do  you  think  so,  Bella?"  "What  a  funny 
girl  you  are ! "  But  never  did  she  essay  the  serious 
role  of  teacher,  to  tax  the  girl's  pronouncements,  or 
insinuate  her  own  doubts.  After  all,  it  is  possible  she 
reflected;  views  are  views,  of  chief  value  to  those  that 
hold  them,  all  more  or  less  relative,  and  by  this  test 
or  that,  more  or  less  false.  Why,  therefore,  seek,  par- 
ticularly in  the  realm  of  hypothetics,  to  depose  one  set 
of  assumptions  in  favor  of  another  whose  only  differ- 
ence may  be  peripheral  to  truth?  As  for  Mrs.  Dysart 
herself,  she  was  Bella's  supreme  standard  of  goodness 
by  which  the  girl  measured  all  things — including  the 
Creator — occasionally,  indeed,  to  the  latter's  disadvan- 
tage. She  could  never  quite  comprehend  His  harshness 
to  Adam  and  Eve. 


52  BELLA 

"  You  would  not  have  been  so  cruel  ? "  she  cried 
imploringly  to  her  mother.  "  You  would  have  forgiven 
them,  wouldn't  you,  mamma?" 

"  I  ?  O  yes,  Bella.  But  then  your  mamma  is  only 
a  woman." 

"  And  all  about  an  apple,"  continued  Bella.  "  Why 
was  God  so  angry  about  an  apple,  mamma?  They  only 
took  one.  Besides,  they  shared  that.  Did  He  want  it 
Himself?" 

"Perhaps  it  was  not  so  much  the  apple,"  Mrs. 
Dysart  suggested,  stroking  the  golden  hair,  "but  be- 
cause of  their  disobedience.  Don't  you  think  so,  Bella? 
God  may  have  been  angry  with  them  for  that." 

"  God  ought  never  to  be  angry  with  anybody,"  Bella 
declared,  "and  for  anything.  He  ought  never  to  lose 
His  temper;  then  other  people  wouldn't  lose  theirs. 
God  made  everybody.  Why  didn't  he  make  them  good? 
When  I  broke  the  Sevres  bowl  that  Uncle  Dody  gave 
you,  you  were  not  angry  with  me.  And  I  was  dis- 
obedient, too,  for  you  said  if  I  leaned  across  the  table 
I  should  break  it,  and  I  did  lean  across  and  I  did  break 
it.  You  didn't  punish  me,  and  you  wouldn't  even  take 
my  box  of  sixpences.  You  said :  '  No,  Bella.  You  did 
not  break  the  bowl  to  grieve  me.  All  your  sixpences 
could  not  buy  another  bowl  just  quite  the  same  as  that. 
But  I  love  you  better  than  any  bowl,  Bella.'  You  do 
love  me,  don't  you  ?  " 

"Indeed  I   do,   Bella." 

"Yes,  I  know  you  do.  And  I  love  you.  O  my! 
But  I  should  never  know  that  God  loved  me  at  all  if 
people  didn't  tell  me  so.  I  should  never  ever  have 
known  there  was  such  a  Person.  I've  never  seen  Him 
— have  you?  How  can  one  love  somebody  one  has 
never  seen?  O  my!  it  does  seem  funny!  To  think 
of  Him  sitting  up  there  all  day,  listening  to  hymns.  If 


BELLA  53 

I  were  God  I  should  tell  people  I  loved  them  myself, 
.so  there  was  no  mistake  about  it.  And  I  wouldn't 
make  people  say  prayers.  If  they  liked  to  thank  me 
for  what  I'd  done  I  should  be  very  glad  indeed,  and 
it  would  make  me  want  to  do  something  more  for  them. 
But  I  wouldn't  grow  vexed  and  angry  if  they  didn't. 

"  Even  when  we  go  to  Heaven  Cook  says  we've  got 
to  sing  all  the  time — not  just  what  we  want  to  sing, 
but  songs  made  up  about  Himself,  and  how  grateful  we 
ought  to  be  for  being  there.  Besides,  if  God  knows 
everything  He  must  know  when  we  are  thankful  with- 
out our  telling  Him,  and  oughtn't  to  wish  anybody  to 
say  they  are  if  they  aren't.  I'd  rather  have  people 
glad  than  thankful.  Gladness  is  thanks  in  a  way,  isn't 
it?  But  one  can  be  thankful  without  being  glad." 

Bella  had  lived  a  long,  long  time.  O  my!  a  fright- 
ful long  time.  Close  on  thirteen  years.  Life  never 
seemed  to  have  had  any  beginning  for  her.  She  and 
her  mother  had  existed  always.  As  far  back  as  ever  her 
memory  could  penetrate  they  had  been  there,  the  two 
of  them,  to  where  the  path  of  life  went  vaguely  into 
the  dark.  Fresh  homes  and  new  maids  and  nurses 
formed  the  milestones  to  her  journey,  and  an  occasional 
cook,  raised  by  some  episode  or  by  tribute  of  the  affec- 
tions into  bas-relief  upon  the  tables  of  remembrance; 
also,  a  desultory  scattering  of  uncles,  who  grew  sporadi- 
cally into  Bella's  life  and  faded  out  again,  seldom  to 
reappear.  But  no  friends  to  speak  of,  save  such  as 
came  occasionally  with  her  uncles,  and  pinched  Bella's 
cheeks;  who  wore  the  snowiest  of  creaseless  shirts  and 
collapsible  hats  that  Bella  loved  to  squeeze  against  her 
breast,  or  flick  open  with  the  report  of  a  pop-gun 
against  her  outstretched  hand. 

Lady  friends  formed  rarer  milestones  in  the  girl's 
remembrance.  Here  and  there  they  figured  in  her 


54  BELLA 

recollection,  rustling  fashionably  in  the  latest  of  gowns; 
ladies  who  talked  toilet,  and  smelled  of  eau-de-Cologne 
and  violets  when  she  kissed  them,  and  laughed  and 
spoke  in  tones  that  had  no  love  in  them,  only  a  bright 
metallic  gaiety,  and  threw  out  endearments  with  the 
carelessness  for  discarding  a  muff — beings  for  the  most 
part  unreal  to  Bella,  because  no  sentiment  seemed  to 
warm  them,  the  objects  of  her  solemn  gaze,  and  not 
comparable  on  any  basis  to  her  mother,  whose  arm 
enfolded  Bella  with  secretly  redoubled  fervor  in  their 
presence,  as  if  the  two  of  them  were  pledged  allies  and 
every  gown  concealed  a  hostile  power.  Ever,  behind 
this  come  and  go  of  faces,  Bella  and  her  mother  had 
shared  the  consciousness  of  solitude ;  it  was  their  secret, 
the  thread  on  which  their  lives  were  inseparably  beaded, 
making  them  dearer  to  each  other,  more  real  and  neces- 
sary to  each  other.  No  girls  of  her  own  age  and  her 
own  estate  had  ever  played  with  Bella,  helping  her  to 
spin  the  flax  of  innocence  into  the  yarn  of  primitive 
and  rudimentary  wisdom,  or  assisted  her  to  shake  the 
tree  of  knowledge  for  its  immature  green  apples.  She 
was  behind  her  age,  and  she  was  before  it.  Of  the 
knowledge  accumulated  and  stored  by  inquiring  child- 
hood, Bella,  as  a  mere  unit  out  of  communion  with  the 
main  body  of  youth,  knew  nothing.  Such  wisdom  as 
she  had  grew  naturally  in  her  bosom — snowdrops  of 
the  fancy  that  a  whisper  might  have  slain. 


VIII 

IN  the  times  when  Bella  was  left  to  herself,  or  by 
herself  (for  one  can  be  very  much  alone  in  com- 
pany)— long  evenings  when  her  mother  was  away  from 
her,  afternoons  when  the  rain  played  on  the  window- 
pane,  like  fingers  thrumming  tunes,  hours  when  Nurse 
was  wrapped  up  over-ears  in  the  pages  of  fiction  so 
deep  that  nothing  but  the  unfailing  instinct  for  a  street 
accident  or  a  passing  funeral  could  have  roused  her — 
at  such  moments  as  these  Bella  used  to  think. 

She  would  think  aloud  to  herself  (if  there  were 
nobody  present)  or  aloud  to  the  two  of  them  if  she 
had  a  companion.  It  was  not  an  objectionable  aloud; 
it  exacted  no  answers,  made  no  more  noise  than  the 
contented  singing  of  the  kettle.  It  went  on  and  on, 
like  the  spinning  of  a  thread,  always  musical,  often 
dreamily  inaudible — a  little  solitary  voice  going  out 
from  her,  far  away  over  the  trackless  plains  of  thought. 
Bella  would  spend  whole  afternoons  in  rummaging  the 
store-room  of  her  recollection;  reclaiming  dusty  cob- 
webby memories  from  obscure  and  forgotten  corners, 
that  she  bore  subsequently  to  Mrs.  Dysart's  knee  for 
identification  or  confirmation.  In  this  diligent  fashion 
she  recalled  scenes  that  less  solitary  childhood  might 
have  forgotten — the  dim  lineaments  of  long-vacated 
homes,  always,  or  nearly  always,  within  reach  of  thfr 
steady  roar  of  London,  tiny  rooms  perched  up  amid 
twisted  chimney-pots,  where  the  sun  blazed  hot  in  sum- 
mer, or  filtered  through  thick  fog  in  winter,  rooms  of 

55 


56  BELLA 

more  spaciousness  and  splendor,  with  lifts  to  take  their 
occupants  up  and  down,  and  agile  boys  in  gilded  but- 
tons to  let  them  in  and  out.  And  once  a  home  at 
Brighton,  and  one  for  a  year  at  Kew,  where  Bella 
could  see  the  great  Pagoda  from  her  bedroom  window, 
and,  of  course — though  this  required  no  remembering — 
their  present  house  by  Regent's  Park,  in  whose  green 
area  Bella  went  for  daily  walks,  and  fed  the  water- 
fowl, and  heard  diurnally  the  trumpetings  of  elephants 
and  imperious  language  of  wild  and  kingly  beasts. 

Out  of  the  illimitable  past,  faces  came  back  to  her; 
dead  people  spoke  to  her.  She  was  perplexed  with  the 
consciousness  of  lips  that  smiled  upon  her,  or  brows  that 
frowned,  or  a  countenance  flushed  and  angry,  or  the 
dim  remembrance  of  voices  in  conflict,  coldly  sup- 
pressed, but  tense  and  biting,  like  frosty  air. 

"A  room — "  Bella's  clear  mathematical  voice  de- 
fined to  Mrs.  Dysart,  her  eyelids  drawn  together,  lash 
to  lash,  as  if  to  get  the  focus  of  this  distant  thing  de- 
scribed— "and,  I  think,  a  very  beautiful  room.  There 
were  four  windows  in  it,  three  at  the  side,  and  one,  a 
very  big  one,  and  two  doors.  The  side  windows  opened 
down  the  middle,  and  you  could  walk  out  of  them  onto 
a  broad  path.  Once  I  think  I  tumbled  and  fell  down, 
and  somebody  picked  me  up.  I  forget  whether  I 
laughed  or  cried,  but  there  were  little  pebbles  sticking 
to  my  hands  and  forehead.  Beyond  the  path  there  was 
a  green  lawn,  and  in  the  middle  of  the  lawn  there  stood 
a  big  tree  that  turned  all  gold,  with  a  white  seat  going 
round  it.  Have  I  ever  seen  such  a  room,  mamma  ?  " 

"  You  were  a  very  little  girl  then,  Bella." 

"  Then  there  was  such  a  room  ?  " 

"It  was  the  drawing-room." 

"  O  my !     Whose  drawing-room  ?  " 


BELLA  57 

"Our  drawing-room — where  we  used  to  live." 

"You  and  I?" 

"Yes— you  and  I." 

"  It  was  a  beautiful  room,  wasn't  it?" 

"  It  was  indeed,  Bella." 

"  Why  did  we  ever  leave  such  a  beautiful  room  ?  " 

Her  mother's  gaze  thinned  momentarily  to  a  fine 
point  of  abstraction. 

"  You  funny  girl !  "  she  said,  and  laughed.  "  One 
cannot  always  live  in  the  same  place,  Bella." 

"  Oh,"  said  Bella,  pondering  the  response.  And 
then  she  saw  that  Mrs.  Dysart  had  not  answered  her. 
"  Perhaps  you  don't  want  to  tell  me." 

"  I  don't  want  to  trouble  you,"  her  mother  corrected 
quickly.  "  That  is  all,  Bella.  It  is  a  long  story.  You 
would  not  understand." 

"  Did  it  make  you  cry  when  we  had  to  leave  ?  Did 
you  kiss  me  when  you  were  crying,  and  did  I  tell  you 
your  cheeks  were  all  wet  ?  " 

"  Do  you  remember  that,  too  ?  " 

Bella  nodded  her  head. 

"  Yes,  I  remember  that  too,  now.  O  my !  "  pursued 
Bella.  "  It's  funny  how  I  can  remember  things  in  that 
way.  Sometimes  I  see  people  doing  things  in  my  head. 
They  open  their  mouths  and  talk  to  each  other,  but  I 
can't  catch  a  single  word.  Just  as  if  I  was  looking  at 
them  through  a  telescope,  ever  so  far  away.  You  know 
what  that  is,  don't  you  ?  " 

"  I  know  what  you  mean,  Bella." 

"  Do  you  remember,"  Bella  questioned  more  slowly 
and  exactly,  as  if  reading  her  words  from  a  half  ob- 
literated inscription,  "  a  man  ?  " 

Mrs.  Dysart  rang  a  little  laugh  like  the  chime  of  a 
bracket-clock. 
5 


58  BELLA 

"A  man!     What  a  funny  question,  Bella!" 

"  Not  Uncle  Peter,  or  Dody,"  Bella  explained.  "  O 
my !  Before  then — a  long  time  before.  As  many  years 
before  as  the  beautiful  drawing-room." 

"Yes?" 

"  Yes." 

"  And  what  was  the  man  like,  Bella  ?  " 

"  I  seem  to  know,  but  somehow  I  can't  say.  It's  like 
trying  to  think  of  a  word  that  you  know  as  well  as  well, 
and  can't  remember.  Was  he  dark,  mamma  ?  " 

"  I  have  known  dark  men.*1 

"  Had  he  a  moustache  ? — a  large  moustache  that 
seemed  to  hide  something,  that  made  you  want  to  know 
what  was  beneath — a  large  dark  moustache  that  he 
pulled — like  this — and  could  laugh  under  without  your 
knowing,  so  that  you  had  to  look  ever  so  hard  to  tell 
if  he  was  smiling  or  angry  ?  " 

"  Perhaps  ...  I  think  he  had,"  Mrs.  Dysart  said 
softly.  "What  sharp  eyes  and  a  long  memory  you 
have,  Bella!" 

"There  was  such  a  man  then?  O  my!  I  knew 
there  was.  How  funny!  I  seem  to  remember  every- 
thing, don't  I?" 

"  Oh,  yes,  there  was  such  a  man."  Mrs.  Dysart's  lips 
paused,  as  though  shaped  for  the  word  "  unfortunately," 
but  no  breath  sounded  it.  She  brightened  her  smile  on 
Bella's  face  instead. 

"What  did  they  call  him?    Do  you  know?" 

"His  name  was  Oliver  Dysart." 

"Dysart!    That's  our  name,  too — yours  and  mine." 

"He  was  your  father,  Bella." 

"  I  didn't  think  I  had  a  father,"  Bella  reflected,  "  ex- 
cept, of  course,  Our  Father  that  art  in  Heaven.  I 
suppose  that  everybody  must  have  a  father  somewhere. 


BELLA  59 

Why  does  he  never  come  to  see  us  ? "  A  pious  fear 
crept  into  Bella's  mind,  subduing  her  lips  and  hushing 
her  voice.  "Is  he  dead,  mamma?" 

"  Dead  to  us,  Bella." 

"  O  my !  "  said  Bella  reverently,  and  pondered  again. 
"  To  us  ?  How  can  that  be  ?  Isn't  he  dead  to  anybody 
else?" 

"  Dead  to  everybody,"  Mrs.  Dysart  corrected. 

"Really  and  truly  dead?"  Bella  inquired,  and  her 
mother  seemed  with  her  lips  to  acquiesce,  saying: 

"  Do  not  think  about  him,  Bella." 

Bella  caught  the  tone  and  looked  deep  into  her 
mother's  eyes. 

"  Didn't  he  love  us,  mamma  ?  " 

"  We  did  not  love  him,  either,  Bella.  You  and  I 
did  not  love  him  either.  He  was  unkind  to  us." 

"No,  no,"  Bella  repeated.  "We  did  not  love  him, 
did  we?  O  my!  Tell  me  about  him,  mamma." 

Mrs.  Dysart  shook  her  head  and  laid  her  fingers 
upon  her  daughter's  hair  in  soft  repression.  "  Don't 
let's  talk  about  him,  Bella." 

"And  I  need  not  try  to  love  him,  mamma?" 

"  You  need  not  try  to  love  him,  Bella." 

"I  love  you,  and  that's  sufficient,  isn't  it?" 

"More   than   sufficient,   Bella." 

Bella  wound  her  arms  around  the  neck  that  inclined 
to  them,  and  fastened  her  lips  against  her  mother's 
cheek.  She  did  not  see  the  enlargement  of  her  mother's 
eyes,  magnified  by  slow-welling  tears,  but  she  felt  the 
contraction  of  her  mother's  arms  around  her,  that  hurt 
her  for  one  keen  moment  (though  she  said  no  word) 
before  they  relaxed  over  a  sigh. 

"You  do  love  me,  Bella?" 

"Yes,  yes,  I  love  you." 


60  BELLA 

"More  dearly  than  anybody  else  in  the  world?" 
"  O  my !     Yes.     Who  else  is  there  for  me  to  love, 
mamma?" 

Mrs.  Dysart  tinged  her  answer  with  a  faintly  bitter 

smile. 

"  True — who  else  is  there  for  you  to  love,  Bella  ?  " 

"  But  I  do  love  you  better  than  anybody  else  in  the 
world.  Better  than  anybody  else  in  the  whole  world. 
O  my!  I  love  you  all  the  better  because  there 
is  only  you  to  love.  Nobody  shares  it.  It  is  every 
bit  for  you,  mamma." 

"Suppose,  Bella " 

"Yes,  yes.  Let's  suppose — I  love  supposing. 
Well?" 

"  Suppose  that  some  day — somebody " 

"Who?" 

"Oh,  anybody." 

"  Suppose  that  anybody — ?  " 

"Yes — told  you  dreadful  things  about  me — about 
your  mother,  some  day " 

"  About  you  ?  " 

"  About  me,  Bella." 

"  But  nobody  would  ever  tell  me  dreadful  things 
about  you,  mamma.  Never !  Never !  How  could  they  ? 
O  my!" 

"But  suppose,   Bella." 

"  Dreadful  things  about  you  ?  About  you — 
mamma  ?  " 

"About  me,  Bella.  They  might.  Who  can  tell?  I 
want  you  to  suppose." 

"What  sort  of  dreadful  things?" 

"  Any  sort.  All  sorts.  Things  that  would  make  you 
suffer  horribly  to  hear." 

"Then  I  should  not  believe  them,"  Bella  cried  in 
her  chill  voice  of  passion — a  passion  purged  of  all  per- 


BELLA  61 

sonal  dross  and  burning,  purely  righteous,  outraged 
justice  making  use  of  her  lips  rather  than  anger  roused. 
"And  I  would  not  listen  to  them.  Only  wicked  people 
could  say  such  things,  and  they  would  never  get  to 
Heaven,  and  I  should  hate  them — hate  them — hate 
them!" 

"  Ah !  You  might  hate  them  if  it  were  untrue.  .  .  . 
But  if  it  were  true — if  it  were  really  true!  Perhaps 
you  would  hate  your  mother  then !  " 

"But  it's  not  true.     It  couldn't  be  true!" 

"  Even  dreadful  things — and  about  people  we  love 
the  best — may  be  true,  Bella." 

"  How  could  it  be  true — about  you,  mamma !  It 
isn't  true.  It's  not  a  bit  true.  Oh,  say  it's  not  true ! " 

"Then  you  wouldn't  love  me,  Bella?" 

"  O  yes.  I  would  love  you.  I  couldn't  help  loving 
you.  You  can't  stop  loving  anybody  you  love  all  at 
once,  like  that.  Oh,  don't  let's  suppose  any  more.  I 
hate  supposing.  It's  all  right  supposing  'As  I  came 
over  London  Bridge,'  or,  '  Suppose  the  Moon  were 
made  of  Cheese.'  But  you  frighten  me  when  you  talk 
about  supposing  dreadful  things,  as  if  you  had  done 
something  wicked." 

"  Everybody  is  wicked,  at  some  time,  Bella." 

"  Oh,  yes,  I  know.  We're  all  of  us  wicked  since  the 
Apple.  But  that's  God's  fault,  not  ours.  Nobody 
knows  quite  what  He  wants  us  to  do.  He's  made  up 
such  a  lot  of  things  that  we  must  and  mustn't,  and 
sometimes  it  is  wicked  if  we  do,  and  sometimes  it's 
wicked  if  we  don't.  Why  can't  we  do  just  as  we  like, 
so  long  as  we  don't  hurt  Him?  He's  frightfully  hard 
to  please.  And  He  says  He'll  give  us  anything  we  want, 
if  only  we'll  ask  Him  for  it,  but  He  doesn't,  because 
I've  asked  Him  for  ever  such  a  lot  of  things,  and  never 
got  one.  I  think  He's  mean,  and  I  told  Nurse  so  last 


62  BELLA 

night,  and  she  said :  '  Take  care  He  doesn't  hear  you.' " 
The  conversation,  deflected  into  Bella's  theological 
channel,  ran  itself  away  from  the  momentous  hypothesis 
— the  monster  Suppose.  By  Mrs.  Dysart  the  subject 
was  not  verbally  raised.  But  more  than  once,  at  odd 
moments  when  she  pressed  back  Bella's  forehead  with 
her  hand,  in  the  caressing  habitude  she  had,  and  gazed 
down  into  the  girl's  reflective  eyes,  the  subject,  spiritu- 
ally resurrected,  seemed  to  haunt  her  gaze — the  phan- 
tom of  a  query,  disquieted  and  apprehensive,  that 
peered,  as  if  it  would  see  into  the  girl's  soul,  and  read 
a  judgment  or  a  doom. 


IX 


BELLA  was  the  soundest  and  lightest  of  sleepers. 
She  slept  as  intently  as  a  top,  sustained  by  the 
least  perceptible  of  breathing;  the  finest  filament  of  air 
sufficed  to  hold  'the  volatile  soul  in  check,  reinforced 
at  intervals  with  a  sigh  of  tranquillity  rather  than  un- 
repose,  when  all  unconsciously  she  turned  upon  her 
pillow.  Less  than  three  minutes  after  uttering  her  last 
Amen,  her  lids  were  locked  over  the  gray  eyes,  and 
save  in  hours  of  sickness  reopened  rarely  until  the  mor- 
row, when  Bella  dismissed  slumber  with  the  same 
alacrity  that  she  quitted  her  chair  after  a  meal,  and  was 
as  wide  awake  one  moment  as  she  had  been  sound  asleep 
the  last,  taking  up  life  like  a  story-book  where  she  had 
left  it  off  the  night  before,  brimful  of  remembered  and 
contemplated  joy,  suffused  each  morning  with  the  spirit 
of  new-born  wonder,  so  that  each  familiar  unfolding  of 
a  fresh  day  had  for  her  no  less  the  sanctity  of  asso- 
ciation than  the  absorbing  interest  of  novelty  and 
change. 

Her  soul,  indeed,  was  the  priceless  crystal  of  con- 
tent, whose  lucid  purity  lends  warmth  and  wonder  and 
the  enchantment  of  prismatic  hues  to  everything  viewed 
through  it.  To  Bella  the  sun  was  more  than  a  celestial 
orb.  He  was  all  that  to  the  girl,  of  course;  a  splendid 
deity  clad  in  robes  of  changing  fire,  of  gold  and  bronze 
and  blood-red  crimson;  a  being  to  be  marveled  at 
and  worshiped.  But  he  was,  beyond  and  further- 
more and  better  still,  her  dear  familiar  friend,  her 

63 


64  BELLA 

playmate  and  companion — too  burning  hot,  perhaps,  for 
Bella  in  his  boisterous  summer  mood,  but  beloved  above 
all  at  eventide,  when  tired  of  play  and  drowsy-headed 
they  watched  each  other  dreamily,  these  two,  in  the 
pious  stillness  of  communion  that  precedes  a  parting. 
Then,  perhaps,  Bella  might  sing  soft  good-nights 
through  her  lips  to  him,  and  blow  him  kisses  as  he  left 
her  window-sill,  calling  him  her  little  brother,  and  beg- 
ging him  be  sure  and  wake  her  up  next  morning,  and 
hoping  tenderly  it  would  not  rain;  endowing  this  dis- 
tant incandescent  body  with  such  real  qualities  of 
friendliness  and  love  that  often  in  her  pensive  and  more 
lonely  moments  his  last  rays  gleamed  on  lashes  humid 
with  the  girl's  tears,  for  no  reason  at  all  that  her  little 
heart  could  give  except  the  permeating  sense  of  a  soft 
and  almost  pleasurable  sadness — the  spiritualization  of 
solitude  and  loss.  Bella  possessed  this  faculty  of  en- 
joying sorrow  for  its  own  sweet  sake  that  is  a  dis- 
tinguishing trait  of  the  artistic  temperament,  and  would 
not  infrequently  beseat  herself  upon  a  buffet  to  be  sad, 
or  in  the  big  settee,  or  cushions  of  the  soft  upholstered 
chairs,  ensconce  herself  to  be  as  lonely  as  you  please, 
swinging  a  dejected  heel,  and  feeding  on  solitude  like 
funeral  cake  of  melancholy  flavor,  telling  her  mother, 
not  without  a  certain  pride  in  the  accomplishment :  "  O 
mamma !  For  ten  minutes  I've  been  so  sorrowful !  " 

And  then  again  she  had  the  child's — and  artist's — 
sense  of  vitalizing  things  inanimate;  endowing  even 
rugs  and  hassocks  with  a  character  distinctive  and  per- 
sonal. Dumb  animals,  for  Bella,  virtually  included 
chairs  and  tables,  and  all  the  family  of  furniture  that 
moved  on  four  legs.  The  moment  Bella  loved  an  ob- 
ject it  became  alive.  The  love  she  bore  it  seemed  re- 
flected, so  that  all  the  things  she  cared  for  assumed  in 
Bella's  eyes  the  aspect  of  tutelar  deities,  filled  with 


BELLA  65 

watchfulness  and  love.  Here,  sublimely  unconscious  of 
her  power,  Bella  held  one  of  the  greatest  secrets  in 
life,  the  secret  of  how  to  live.  "  They  live  well 
who  love  well,"  says  the  old  maxim  that  adds,  for 
those  who  set  a  value  on  the  manner  of  demise, 
"  and  die  well  who  live  well."  For  unless  we  lavish 
our  affections  the  world  we  pass  through  remains  but 
a  barren  rock,  stubborn  and  reticent,  and  yielding  noth- 
ing because  endowed  with  nothing.  Life,  to  blossom 
and  to  flower  with  benefits,  must  first  be  spiritually  fer- 
tilized, made  beautiful  with  our  own  fancies,  and 
quickened  with  our  own  affections.  Let  the  heart  cease 
to  be  husbandman  of  our  happiness  and  the  world  of 
beauty  and  of  wonder  withers;  its  blossoms  fade  and 
fall;  its  golden  crops  die  down  and  leave  revealed  the 
furrows  of  a  naked  soil.  All  things  are  only  beautiful 
to  those  that  see  them  so;  the  empty  heart  perceives 
a  hollow  world;  without  love  in  ourselves  no  quality 
of  love  can  touch  us.  Verily,  indeed,  to  those  that  have 
shall  be  given,  and  from  those  that  have  not  shall  be 
taken  even  that  that  they  have. 

For  Bella  the  very  rooms  were  worlds,  filled  with 
fellow-lives  and  wonders ;  friendly  spirits  and  compan- 
ionable voices.  Even  the  home-made  fairy  tale,  spun 
by  her  own  imagination  to  fill  some  lonely  hour,  as- 
sumed, when  once  created,  its  living  place  within  the 
circle  of  the  girl's  affections — a  friend  and  playmate 
henceforth  to  revisit  her,  and  divide  and  reciprocate 
love.  The  days  of  the  week  were  individual  for 
Bella,  each  possessing  its  particular  and  incommu- 
nicable quality — derived  again  from  the  girl's  own 
heart — and  admitting  a  preference  (though  conscien- 
tiously curbed,  like  the  mother's  feelings  toward  a 
large  family)  in  Bella's  love  of  them.  Of  all  days  in 
the  week,  perhaps,  she  favored  Wednesday.  But  Mon- 


66  BELLA 

day  was  a  beautiful  day,  too,  wasn't  it?  And  so  was 
Saturday,  that  brought  her  stipulated  sixpence.  And 
she  liked  Friday  as  well.  Poor  Friday!  Perhaps  it 
wasn't  so  unlucky  as  people  thought.  O  my!  Good 
Friday  couldn't  be  unlucky — could  it— with  it's  beauti- 
ful hot-cross  buns !  And,  of  course,  there  was  Sunday, 
whose  mention  caused  her  voice  to  sink  in  tone  to  what 
in  attitude  would  be  a  kneeling  posture,  hushed  and 
reverent.  O  my!  They  mustn't  forget  Sunday,  must 
they!  Sunday  was  a  lovely  day — so  quiet  and  good. 
But  she  loved  all  the  days.  How  funny  there  were 
just  seven  of  them  and  no  more,  so  they  had  to  keep 
coming  over  and  over  and  over  again.  Sometimes  she 
rather  wished  there  had  been  eight.  Did  they  ever  get 
tired?  How  did  people  really  know  which  day  was 
which?  O  my!  And  who  gave  them  their  names? 
God? 

Whenever  Bella  took  a  toy  or  book  or  favored  thing 
to  bed,  its  presence  near  her  pillow  or  beneath  it  broke 
her  sleep  betimes.  All  through  the  night  the  sense  of 
that  cherished  proximity  mingled  with  the  sweetness  of 
her  dreams,  and  in  the  morning  woke  her.  Or  if  her 
lids  had  closed  in  slumber,  half-smiling  over  some  pro- 
ject for  the  morrow,  it  was  that  project  knocking  at  the 
door  of  Bella's  consciousness  that  called  the  girl  all 
eager  from  her  sleep.  Such  a  project  woke  her  on  the 
Sunday,  drew  her  up  irresistibly  like  a  bubble  to  the 
surface  of  slumber,  that  burst  over  the  golden  bars  of 
Spathorpe  sunlight  through  the  winking  blinds  with  a 
rapturous  "  O  my ! "  The  knowledge  of  the  day  had 
been  a  star  twinkling  over  her  since  dawn,  a  kiss  com- 
ing to  her  from  the  skies  to  meet  the  moment  on  her 
lips.  In  the  brief  slumbrous  seesaw  of  Bella's  senses, 
that  took  place  always  when  first  she  closed  her  eyes 
at  night,  those  effortless  imaginings  like  the  play  of 


BELLA  67 

sleek  waters  that  subside  into  the  placid  level  of  sleep, 
there  had  come  to  her  a  resolve — a  resolve  whose 
beauty  almost  woke  the  girl  again — O  my!  a  wonderful 
resolve,  a  lovely  resolve.  It  was  a  resolve  built  upon  a 
silk  hat.  Did  one  ever  hear  of  such  a  resolve? 

To-morrow,  Bella  told"  herself,  would  be  a  day  of 
bells  and  best  frocks,  and  new  shoes  and  silk  hats. 
Twice  already  she  had  heard  the  mellow  bells  of  old 
St.  Margaret's  ring  across  the  bay  on  Sunday  morning 
— such  gentle,  lovable  bells  with  the  sweetest  and  sad- 
dest and  kindest  of  voices,  that  seemed  to  know  all 
about  Bella,  and  how  old  she  was,  and  how  lonely, 
and  where  she  came  from,  calling  her  by  name  so 
frequently  and  clearly  that  none  but  Leonie  could  mis- 
take it.  Bella  threw  open  her  heart  to  these  holy  sisters 
of  the  belfry,  and  they  entered  and  talked  with  her, 
making  her  as  sad  as  sad,  and  beautifully  devout,  beg- 
ging her  some  day  to  come  and  see  them,  and  yet  not 
reproaching  her  or  showing  anger  for  her  present 
neglect,  knowing  that  her  mother  was  ill,  and  Leonie 
a  Roman  Catholic,  who  spat  contemptuous  "  Pftts!" 
and  "  Heins!"  against  the  English  churches,  and  telling 
Bella  they  were  all  stolen  from  the  Pope;  and  Mrs. 
Herring  had  the  cooking  to  look  after,  and  there  was 
no  one  to  keep  Bella  company.  But  to-morrow  she 
would  pay  them  a  visit,  with  her  new  red  morocco 
prayer-book,  and  the  Poet  should  take  her,  wearing  his 
shining  silk  hat.  In  all  Bella's  life  she  had  never  once 
been  to  church  with  a  silk  hat.  O  my!  never.  She 
had  seen  them  conducted  reverently  into  church  along 
with  other  enviable  little  girls,  and  prayed  into,  and  put 
carefully  under  the  seat,  or  out  of  harm's  way  on  the 
cushion  at  the  end  of  it — sometimes  so  close  to  Bella 
that  she  could  peep  over  the  pew  ledge  and  read  the 
maker's  name  and  the  owner's  gold  initials  in  the  won- 


'68  BELLA 

derful  white  silk  lining,  and  smell  the  fascinating  odor 
of  Russia  leather  from  the  head-band.  Of  all  her 
uncles,  who  invariably  wore  the  blackest  and  sleekest 
and  silkiest  of  silk  hats — hats  that  shone  like  polished 
saucepans,  and  looked  lovely  on  a  drawing-room  chair 
or  on  the  hat-stand — not  one  of  them  had  ever  taken 
Bella  to  church.  They  had  laughed  most  engagingly  at 
the  suggestion,  as  if,  with  a  little  further  pressing,  they 
might  be  prevailed  on,  and  had  taken  a  fold  of  Bella's 
sober  cheek  between  their  thumb  and  forefinger,  prom- 
ising :  "  Oh,  some  day,  Bella."  But  some  day,  like  to- 
morrow, never  came.  Never  had  Bella  known  the  joy 
of  going  to  church  in  company  with  a  decorous  silk 
hat,  of  being  the  first  to  reach  it  after  the  benediction, 
of  polishing  its  surface  caressingly  with  her  sleeve  as 
she  had  learned  to  do  at  home.  But  now  this  de- 
ficiency in  her  experience  was  to  be  corrected.  To- 
morrow such  a  hat  should  go  with  her  to  church  and 
share  the  pew  and  lend  an  added  fervor  to  her  prayers. 
"Yes,"  she  decided  in  the  beatific  state  of  faith  pre- 
ceding slumber.  "  To-morrow  morning  we  will  go  to 
church.  Won't  it  be  lovely  with  the  bells  all  ringing. 
O  my!  I  hope  it's  fine.  And  I  will  lend  Roo  my  red 
morocco  prayer-book  if  he  likes.  And  after  that  he  is 
to  come  and  see  mamma." 


AND  in  the  morning  the  knowledge  of  the  day  and 
the  remembrance  of  her  resolution  shone  upon  her 
heart  like  sunlight  upon  a  dial;  with  a  sense  of  warmth 
and  light  and  gladness  that  awoke  her. 

She  put  on  the  open-worked  stockings — at  a  day 
before  open-worked  stockings  had  run  their  fatal  course 
of  popularity — and  the  fawn-colored  frock,  her  very 
latest  frock  of  all,  that  was  proudly  longer  in  the  skirt 
than  any  she  had  worn  before,  and  her  new  French 
shoes,  with  real  silver  buckles,  that  Bella's  self  breathed 
on  and  polished  to  a  distracting  intensity  of  reflection; 
and  the  filigree  silver  belt  that  Mrs.  Dysart  had  re- 
nounced in  favor  of  her  daughter.  Thus  arrayed,  she 
followed  Leonie,  who  bore  the  tea-tray,  into  her 
mother's  room,  with  pursed  lips  and  interrogative  eye- 
brows, that  on  a  sudden  expansion  burst  into  light  and 
life  as  she  saw  her  mother's  wakened  and  smileful  eyes, 
flinging  herself  robustly  on  the  bedside  and  fastening 
voluble  kisses  on  her  mother's  cheek,  whose  music  filled 
the  room  like  the  sudden  waking  of  a  songbird,  and 
bidding  her  mother :  "  Look,  mamma !  Aren't  they 
pretty  stockings?  Aren't  they  darling  shoes?  Isn't  it  a 
sweet  of  a  frock!  Oh,  mamma,  I  love  you."  Then, 
when  she  had  taken  her  mother's  two  hands  in  hers, 
holding  her  thus  lovingly  at  arms'  length  to  be  looked 
at,  and  shortened  the  regard  into  an  irresistible  caress, 
and  poured  out  her  mother's  tea,  and  sat  at  the  bed- 
foot  to  watch  her  mother  drink  it,  devouring  her 

69 


70  BELLA 

mother's  every  movement  with  eyes  of  curious  intent- 
ness  and  admiration,  while  her  lips  moved  in  quick 
sympathy  with  what  she  saw. 

"  Oh,  mamma !  You  do  look  sweet,  sitting  up  in 
bed."  "What  a  pretty  smile  that  was,  just  then.  O 
my!  With  your  lips  close  to  the  tea  cup,  just  like 
giving  a  kiss.  What  were  you  thinking  about?  About 
me?  Really?"  "And  how  sweetly  you  hold  your  cup, 
with  one — two — three  fingers  curled.  However  do  you 
do  it?  Like  this?  No,  it  isn't  like  that.  My  fingers 
won't  do  it  a  bit.  O  my !  I'd  love  it  if  they  would." 

Then,  after  unplaitings  and  replaitings  of  her 
mother's  hair,  and  smoothings  of  her  mother's  pillow, 
Bella  had  run  hatless  to  Mrs.  Herring's,  her  silver 
buckles  flashing  in  the  sun,  to  ask  how  Bendigo  was, 
and  Mrs.  Herring's  self,  and  "  Look,  Mrs.  Herring. 
This  is  the  frock  I  told  you  of.  Am  I  troubling  you? 
And  this  is  the  belt.  And  these  are  the  shoes.  Do 
say  they're  nice.  And  how  do  you  like  my  stockings? 
Perhaps  Mr.  Herring  would  like  to  see  them,  too.  Is 
that  Mr.  Herring  in  the  scullery  ? " 

It  was  Mr.  Herring  tied  up  in  a  fringed  white  apron, 
busy  with  Sir  Henry's  and  the  Poet's  boots.  Now  and 
again  he  held  his  work  out  at  melancholy  arm's  length, 
as  though  despairing  of  it,  breathed  twofold  sighs  upon 
the  leather,  and  resumed  his  rubbing  with  the  air  of 
one  trying  to  efface  some  blighted  past.  Bella  was  not 
without  her  doubts  as  to  Mr.  Herring's  status  in  the 
domestic  world.  He  seemed  to  haunt  rather  than  in- 
habit it,  treading  his  way  about  the  lower  regions  with 
a  deportment  of  curbed  respect  for  somebody  dead  in 
the  upper;  and  accompanying  each  step  with  a  re- 
pressive sibilance  that  sought  to  extinguish  the  sound 
of  his  feet.  No  discoverable  deference  appeared  to  be 
paid  to  him,  and  certainly  none  was  demanded.  His 


BELLA  71 

chief  anxiety  in  life  seemed  to  consist  of  an  attempt  to 
escape  notice.  Even  Louisa  exclaimed  one  day,  in 
Bella's  hearing :  "  Oh,  it's  only  master'm,"  which  Bella, 
on  reflection,  came  to  consider  a  somewhat  curious  say- 
ing. Indeed,  but  for  Bella's  explorative  instincts  she 
might  never  have  known  Mrs.  Herring's  husband  as  any- 
thing more  substantial  than  a  cough  that  scraped  dis- 
creetly behind  the  scullery  door.  Always  Mr.  Herring 
stole  about  with  an  uneasy  eye  as  if  a  troubled  seeker 
of  something  difficult  to  define,  whom  the  mere  turn  of 
Mrs.  Herring's  head  sufficed  to  convince  that  the  ob- 
ject of  his  quest,  if  any,  lay  elsewhere.  And  when  Mrs. 
Herring,  Bella  noted  curiously,  addressed  her  husband, 
it  was  for  the  most  part  in  monosyllables,  such  as 
"  Well !  "  "  Now !  "  "  What !  "  "  Here !  "  all  more  or 
less  of  an  interjectional  character,  like  articles  thrown, 
that  caused  Mr.  Herring  to  quicken  his  step  forward, 
or  vanish  as  swiftly  as  revealed,  drawing  the  door  upon 
his  face  so  hurriedly  as  to  suggest  a  risk  of  trapping 
it,  making  through  his  blown  lips  a  self-deprecatory 
noise  akin  to  the  sound  of  a  boiling  batter  pudding  when 
it  pouts  and  puffs  with  steam.  Now  that  he  had  shed 
his  upper  teeth,  and  his  top  lip  displayed  a  tendency  to 
sink  behind  the  lower,  it  was  difficult  to  believe  that 
he  had  once  been  butler  in  a  nobleman's  family,  and 
firmly  but  respectfully  insinuated  the  names  of  wines 
and  dishes  in  the  ears  of  great  people,  and  disdained  all 
offices  short  of  dignity.  Now,  all  those  little  offices 
that  lay  below  the  dignity  of  wife  or  maids  were  his, 
relegated  by  a  natural  process  to  this  one-time  formula 
of  pomp  and  circumstance,  Mrs.  Herring's  designation 
for  her  husband  being  generally  "  he."  "  Oh,  never 
mind  that,  Louisa,  You  haven't  time  now.  He'll  look 
to  it  when  he  comes  back." 

With    her    peculiar    faculty    for    loving    everybody 


72  BELLA 

Bella  bestowed  her  affection  promptly  on  Mr.  Herring, 
and  grew  quite  intimate  and  friendly  with  his  double- 
barreled  voice,  like  a  brace  of  whispers,  that  made  two 
of  every  word  he  said,  and  carried  a  peculiar  fragrance 
now  and  then,  puzzlingly  familiar,  that  Bella  felt  sure 
she  knew  and  yet  could  not  recall,  like  brandysnap  or 
caraway  seed. 

From  the  scullery  and  Mr.  Herring's  whispers,  Bella 
tripped  upstairs  to  Rupert's  room,  in  company  with 
Bendigo,  that  dingy  and  most  affable  dog,  a  fox  terrier 
by  birth  and  a  loafer  by  proclivity,  who  was  always 
having  to  forego  his  tub  during  the  season,  owing  to 
domestic  pressure,  and  grew  in  sociability  as  he  dimin- 
ished in  cleanliness.  It  was  so  long  since  Bendigo  had 
taken  part  in  the  pleasures  of  the  field  that  he  would 
scarcely  have  recognized  a  rabbit  had  he  seen  one.  Much 
polishing  of  Sir  Henry's  plates  had  accentuated  a  ten- 
dency in  him  to  embonpoint;  the  steady  enlargement  of 
his  abdominal  convexity  had  so  widened  the  rib  space 
between  his  legs  that  the  latter  now  obtruded  at  an 
angle  like  the  wooden  legs  of  a  washerwoman's  peggy. 
His  black  left  ear,  snipped  and  punched  like  an  all- 
through  railway  ticket  hung  with  somewhat  sinister 
effect  over  his  left  eye,  and  there  was  invariably  a  black 
patch  in  the  vicinity  of  Bendigo's  reverse,  due  to  his 
partiality  for  sitting  on  hot  tar.  He  lived  contentedly 
under  a  general  sense  of  disgrace,  hearing  himself  so 
habitually  apostrophized  in  terms  of  reprehension  and 
censure  that  the  epithets  by  sheer  familiarity  aroused 
his  amicable  feelings,  and  stimulated  the  most  friendly 
functions  of  his  tail.  Representation  on  Sir  Henry's 
part  had  caused  Bendigo  to  be  excluded  rigorously  from 
the  knight's  apartments,  his  occasional  intrusion  there 
being  notified  by  a  violent  ringing  of  the  bell.  But 
the  Poet  imposed  no  restrictions  of  the  kind.  He  and 


BELLA  73 

Bendigo,  after  Bella's  introduction,  maintained  the  very 
b.est  of  terms,  and  many  a  sigh  of  sun-warmed  satis- 
faction did  Bendigo  heave  upon  the  balcony,  or  be- 
neath the  cool  shade  of  the  Poet's  sofa. 

The  Poet  was  not  visible  this  morning,  having  gone 
down  to  the  shore  with  a  towel  around  his  neck,  but 
Bella  helped  Louisa  to  spread  the  cloth,  and  set  the 
Poet's  place,  and  lay  his  letters  on  a  plate  (she  knew 
who  that  was  from — that  big  one  with  the  big  black 
writing — O  my!  wasn't  it  funny  writing!)  and  draw 
his  chair  to  table,  after  which  Bella  raced  onto  the 
balcony  to  look  for  Roo,  and  hold  an  incidental  con- 
versation with  the  boy  from  next  door,  who  cut  a  very 
altered  and  unfamiliar  figure  in  his  Sunday  clothes. 

This  boy,  together  with  a  mother,  some  sisters,  a 
nursemaid,  and  a  brother  or  two  (one  of  them  violently 
and  noisily  in  arms)  was  the  property  of  a  clergyman 
occupying  the  lower  sitting-room  in  the  adjacent  house 
upon  the  Esplanade.  Bella  had  made  his  acquaintance 
the  day  before  yesterday,  partly  through  Bendigo,  but 
chiefly  impelled  to  friendship  by  the  curious  fact  that 
he  lived  in  the  next  house  to  the  Poet. 

"  Do  you  live  there  ?  O  my !  How  funny !  Is  it  a 
nice  house?  You  haven't  got  a  balcony,  have  you? 
Would  you  like  to  have  a  balcony?  Are  all  those  your 
sisters  and  brothers?"  She  noticed,  without  unkind- 
ness,  and,  indeed,  with  peculiar  feelings  of  affection, 
that  the  boy  had  a  very  large  mouth,  not  unlike  the 
postal  pillar-box  around  the  corner,  and  no  chin  to 
speak  of,  which  slipped  out  of  sight  behind  his  collar 
when  he  spoke,  as  though  guilty  of  something.  Rupert 
called  him  the  Polliwog.  Bella  did  not  know  what  a 
polliwog  was,  so  the  Poet  explained  that  it  was  classic 
Greek  for  tadpole,  and  Bella  did  not  know  what  a 

tadpole  was,  being  O  my!  frightfully  ignorant,  but  the 
6 


74  BELLA 

Poet  said :  "  Never  mind,  Bella,  you  know  what  he  is, 
don't  you?"  And  Bella  said:  O  my!  she  should  think 
she  did!  He  had  a  bull-shaped  head  receding  to  noth- 
ing, and  the  thinnest  of  legs  issuing  from  the  widest 
and  longest  of  knickerbockers,  cut  on  a  capacious  model 
for  growth,  that  Bella  eyed  with  a  look  between  com- 
miseration and  perplexity.  Such  legs  and  such  knicker- 
bockers could  never  have  led  any  one  to  suppose  their 
owner  was  in  love  with  Bella.  That  was  one  of  the 
things  he  kept  furtively  to  himself,  like  the  solitary 
apple,  or  the  last  humbug  at  the  bottom  of  the  bag, 
fearful  of  being  called  on  to  divide  its  sweetness  with 
another.  True,  he  had  tried  to  insinuate  a  quality  of 
propitiation  into  the  smile  with  which  he  favored  Bella, 
but  as  Bella  was  unacquainted  with  the  smile  in  its 
normal  character,  there  was  little  to  be  gleaned  from 
that,  and  besides,  the  Polliwog's  face  at  this  epoch  of 
development  was  an  indifferent  medium  for  the  soft 
emotions.  Wrath,  passion,  uncharity,  malice  and  the 
war-like  moods  lacked  nothing  by  translation  into  terms 
of  his  large  mouth  and  collapsible  brow,  but  a  guilty 
self-conscience  laid  in  wait  like  a  highwayman  for  all 
the  kindlier  feelings,  and  robbed  and  pistoled  them 
effectually  on  the  turnpike  road. 

How  such  a  boy  had  ever  come  to  attach  a  senti- 
mental significance  to  Bella  is  more  than  can  be  ex- 
plained for  the  satisfaction  of  the  deeply  inquiring.  But 
that  she  was  able  to  inspire  him  with  one  single  thought 
of  any  tender  shade  must  stand  largely  writ  to  the 
credit  of  Bella's  beauty.  Probably  the  Polliwog  had 
heard  his  family  discussing  Bella's  charms  at  table. 
They  had  done  so  more  than  once,  and  even  assembled 
discreetly  by  the  window  to  observe  her  at  the  call  of 
the  Polliwog's  second  sister :  "  Look,  mamma !  Look, 
papa!  There's  that  pretty  girl  with  the  golden  hair, 


BELLA  75 

close  to  the  gate,  talking  to  the  postilion  and  stroking 
the  horse's  nose.  I  wonder  who  she  is."  It  is  scarcely 
probable  that  the  Polliwog's  eye  for  beauty  was  suffi- 
ciently developed  to  perceive  this  quality  in  Bella  for 
himself.  Boys  of  the  Polliwog  type  have  a  faculty  for 
coveting  the  things  that  other  people  like.  It  is  a  form 
of  greed. 

Bella  had  just  counted  four  ships  at  sea  this  morn- 
ing when  the  Polliwog  appeared.  Her  alert  gray  eye 
caught  sight  of  him  at  once,  and  her  gaze  transferred 
itself  with  keen  and  interested  friendliness  to  his  move- 
ments, waiting  for  his  look  and  recognition.  He  had 
seen  Bella  from  the  first,  but  not  knowing  in  what  man- 
ner the  difficult  problem  of  acknowledgment  was  to  be 
effected,  decided  to  ignore  her  for  the  present  and  per- 
form incidentally  one  or  two  bold  and  many  acts  to 
recommend  himself  more  valiantly  to  her  favor.  To 
which  end  he  whistled  nonchalantly  and  flung  a  stone 
across  the  roadway,  and  kicked  the  palings,  and  made 
semblance  of  performing  gymnastic  exercises  on  the 
gate,  and  was  proceeding  to  ride  upon  it  when  a  deep 
masculine  voice  from  the  lower  window  boomed  out 
like  a  distant  minute  gun,  uttering  a  single  name,  where- 
at the  Polliwog  ceased  awkwardly,  with  a  lingering 
promptitude,  as  if  cessation  were  voluntary,  rubbing  his 
hands  and  putting  them  into  his  trousers'  pockets,  and 
propping  himself  against  the  rails  with  a  heel  hooked 
onto  the  stone  curb,  and  last  of  all — when  Bella  was 
beginning  to  wonder  however  he  could  fail  to  notice 
her  for  so  long — turning  his  glance  casually  to  the  bal- 
cony, from  which  Bella's  face,  framed  on  each  side 
in  falls  of  golden  hair,  looked  intently  down  on  him. 
There,  his  eyes  fenced  shiftily  with  hers  for  a  second 
or  two,  and  his  mouth  described  the  arc  of  an  uneasy 
smile. 


XI 

C  4  T  T  ELLO ! "  he  said,  in  a  voice  pitched  loud 
A  JL  enough  to  reach  the  balcony  and  yet  fall  short 
of  vigilant  parental  ears.  He  had  rejected  "  Good  day  " 
or  "  Good  morning "  as  forms  of  correct  address  be- 
traying weakness  in  a  boy,  whistling  over  his  words  the 
moment  uttered,  to  mark  their  unimportance  in  his  eyes, 
and  looking  up  and  down  the  roadway  with  an  air  of 
being  superior  to  circumstances. 

"  Hello,"  sang  Bella.  The  word  was  not  one  of 
her  most  familiar  acquaintances,  but  she  befriended  it 
brightly  for  the  Polliwog's  sake,  accenting  each  syllable 
as  if  she  took  the  word  by  both  hands  and  said  how 
glad  she  was  to  meet  it.  The  Polliwog  winced  at  the 
unguarded  brightness  of  her  voice,  whose  clear  tone 
seemed  to  flash  in  the  sunlight  as  if  it  were  a  coin.  He 
changed  uneasy  heels  against  the  coping  and  turned  to 
steal  a  hurried  glance  at  the  lower  window,  but  its 
pacific  and  unwatchful  character  appeared  to  lend  no 
substance  to  alarm,  for  he  raised  his  head  to  the  bal- 
cony again,  and  bade  Bella  in  the  same  low  voice 
(through  a  smile  like  an  inverted  sickle)  not  to  fall 
down.  This  was  his  humor,  or  rather  the  revised 
quality  ot  it  corresponding  to  his  amended  smile.  The 
tyrannical  humor  with  which  he  favored  his  sisters  was 
of  a  totally  different  order,  and  would  have  been  quite 
unintelligible  to  Bella,  whose  closest  intimacy  with  cur- 
rent slang  lay  in  her  own  fanciful  administration  of  the 
parts  of  speech. 

76 


BELLA  77 

"O  my ! "  she  responded,  measuring  with  an  awed 
and  imaginative  eye  the  distance  of  the  drop.  "  No,  I 
mustn't  do  that,  must  I  ?  " 

She  disengaged  her  glance  from  its  momentary  task 
of  computation,  and  employed  it  interestedly  on  the  Pol- 
liwog's  raiment. 

"  Those  are  your  Sunday  clothes,  aren't  they  ?  "  she 
inquired  with  ingenuous  candor. 

The  Polliwog's  chin  went  out  of  sight  behind  his 
collar,  and  his  forehead,  collapsing,  hid  his  shifty  eyes 
in  a  self-conscious  withdrawal  of  gaze  that  Bella  read 
for  assent. 

"  I  thought  they  were,"  she  said.  "  I've  got  a  Sun- 
day frock  on,  too.  And  my  best  shoes.  Look!  Are 
you  going  to  church  ?  " 

The  Polliwog's  brow  obscured  his  eyes  still  further, 
and  the  sickle-shaped  smile  hung  onto  his  mouth  at  one 
corner  only.  Bella  understood  him  to  nod  his  head, 
and  thereafter  he  whistled  two  or  three  notes,  subdued 
in  quality,  but  of  a  strain  notably  defiant. 

"  So  am  I,"  said  Bella.  "  Isn't  it  funny  ?  I've  never 
been  to  church  in  Spathorpe  before.  Of  course,  I've 
been  in  other  places  lots  of  times.  Which  church  are 
you  going  to?  St.  Margaret's?  That  beautiful  big 
old  church  right  over  there,  where  the  bells  are.  See! 
Where  my  finger  points." 

Bella  bent  her  head  as  far  over  the  balcony  as  it 
would  go,  to  try  and  gain  a  peep  beneath  the  obstinate, 
interceptive  bulge  of  the  Polliwog's  brow,  that  hid  his 
eyes  from  her. 

"  They're  the  dearest  old  bells.  They'll  begin  to 
ring  after  awhile.  Do  you  like  going  to  church?  I  do. 
I  love  it." 

Some  sort  of  moral  convulsion  appeared  to  upheave 
the  Polliwog's  brow,  and  to  Bella's  amazement  he  mut- 


78 

tered  words  not  clearly  audible,  but  unmistakably  in 
derogation  of  these  hallowed  edifices.  Bella  had  almost 
the  belief  that  he  proclaimed  himself  sick  of  church, 
and  said  that  he  hated  it-«-though  that,  of  course,  could 
scarcely  be,  coming  from  a  clergyman's  son.  For  the 
moment  she  wondered  whether  the  Polliwog  could,  by 
any  means,  be  less  nice  than  she  had  tried  to  think  him. 
But  she  dismissed  the  doubt  by  deciding  to  believe  that 
she  was  not  sure  if  he  had  really  said  what,  just  at  first, 
she  had  been  horrified  to  think  he  had  said,  and  resolved 
— at  least,  for  the  present — to  consider  him  as  nice  as 
ever.  So  her  smile,  that  had  softened  unconsciously 
whilst  her  gray  eyes  took  their  curious  re-survey  of 
him,  brightened  again. 

"  I  thought — "  she  began  in  her  clear  and  friendly 
voice,  and  broke  the  sentence  in  favor  of  a  query: 
"  Your  father's  a  clergyman,  isn't  he  ?  Are  you  going 
to  be  a  clergyman,  too  ?  "  at  which  the  Polliwog  twisted 
an  unmistakable  backward  glance  of  alarm  through 
the  palings,  and  cast  at  the  balcony  an  admonitory 
"  Shut  up.  He'll  hear  you !  "  adding,  on  reassurance : 
"  I'm  going  to  be  a  sailor." 

"  A  sailor !  "  cried  Bella,  her  interest,  temporarily 
arrested,  streaming  frankly  out  again,  drawn  by  the 
splendor  of  the  confidence.  "O  my!  A  real  sailor?" 

"Yes — a  real  sailor.  On  a  man-of-war.  I  shall 
wear  a  sword  and  a  pistol." 

"  You'll  be  killing  somebody,"  Bella  said,  in  anticipa- 
tory alarm. 

"I  mean  to,"  the  Polliwog  retorted.  "I'm  going 
out  to  shoot  black  men,  like  Uncle  Harry." 

"That's  horrid,"  Bella  exclaimed,  her  gray  eyes 
brought  suddenly  to  a  standstill.  "They've  never  done 
you  any  harm.  I  hate  killing  things.  It's  wicked." 

At  the  sign  of  her  feminine  weakness  the  Polliwog, 


BELLA  79 

true  to  the  filibustering  type  of  his  kind,  began  to  tram- 
ple victoriously  upon  her  sympathies.  With  boys,  love 
is  a  matter  of  mere  conquest,  not  policy.  All  the  ele- 
mental instincts  of  the  race  rule  them;  the  sex  must 
be  subjugated  through  terror,  not  affection. 

"  I've  shot  birds,  I  have — with  a  catapult !  "  He 
was  parading  his  gory  valor  before  the  startled  face  that 
overhung  the  balcony.  At  all  costs  Bella  must  be  made 
to  see  and  worship  the  warrior  in  him. 

"  I've  helped  to  kill  pigs,  too — at  Christmas.  And  I 
shall  help  again  this  year — I  shall.  I've  watched  them 
kill  all  sorts  of  things " 

"  Don't !  "  cried  Bella.  "  I  won't  listen."  And  put 
her  fingers  into  her  ears,  until  the  open  immobility  of 
the  Polliwog's  mouth  assured  her  he  was  no  longer 
speaking,  when  she  cautiously  withdrew  them  again. 

"  I  call  that  horrid,"  she  said.  "  I  call  it  cruel. 
Don't  tell  me  about  such  things." 

The  Polliwog  grinned  with  diabolical  triumph.  Bella 
saw  something  of  the  real  character  of  his  smile.  To 
be  accused  of  cruelty  was  distinction  for  the  Polliwog, 
indeed.  Blood  (except  his  own)  had  no  terrors  for 
him.  Now  the  girl  would  see  him  in  his  formidable 
stern  proportions ;  not  a  mere  school-boy,  flinching  at 
the  cane,  but  a  noble  butcher,  inflicting  pain  without 
compunction,  and  laughing  recklessly  over  recitals  of 
bloodshed  as  pirates  nonchalantly  light  their  pipes  with 
firebrands  over  powder  magazines. 

"  Once  I  saw — "  he  continued,  and  Bella's  hands 
went  promptly  to  her  head  again. 

"  I'm  not  listening,"  she  cried,  through  the  buzz  that 
filled  her  ears,  but  fixing  the  Polliwog's  lips  with  a  keen 
and  fascinating  glance.  What  had  he  seen? 

Bella  was  still  wondering,  watching  the  Polliwog's 
lips  move,  and  debating  whether  she  might  conscien- 


80  BELLA 

tiously  relax  the  pressure  on  her  ears,  when  of  a  sud- 
den the  triumph  faded  from  the  Polliwog's  smile,  and 
the  smile  slipped  furtively  round  the  corner  of  his  face 
like  a  fox  vacating  a  foldyard.  He  seemed  to  have  no 
further  consciousness  of  Bella,  but  detached  himself 
from  the  palings  and  commenced  to  saunter  down  the 
Esplanade  with  as  much  abstraction  as  if  their  con- 
versation had  been  concluded  this  hour  or  more. 

"  O  my ! "  said  Bella  incredulously,  and  would  have 
added :  "  What  a  funny  boy ! "  when  she  caught  sight 
of  the  Polliwog's  father,  wearing  somebody  else's 
cricket  cap,  and  shabby  red  carpet  slippers,  who  strolled 
down  the  asphalt  path  to  the  gate  with  a  daughter  hang- 
ing onto  each  arm,  and  the  smallest  Polliwog  but  one 
attempting  to  fasten  himself  to  the  party's  rear  by 
means  of  the  younger  sister's  frock,  which  she  resisted, 
knocking  away  the  undesired  clasp  from  time  to  time 
with  emphatic  "  Don't,"  "  You  shan't !  "  "  I  won't  let 
you,"  that  Bella  plainly  heard,  and  appealing  to  her 
father :  "  Papa !  Arthur  keeps  pulling  my  frock." 

Despite  the  cricket  cap  all  awry  upon  his  head,  and 
several  sizes  too  small  for  him,  and  the  carpet  slippers 
seemingly  several  sizes  too  large,  one  would  have  rec- 
ognized the  Reverend  Alfred  Higginson  anywhere — as 
he  intended  one  should — for  a  substantial  middle-aged 
rector  of  the  Established  Church.  He  had  the  chiseled 
profile,  the  clear-cut  features,  the  restrained  firm  lips, 
between  kindness  and  severity,  that  seemed  to  have  por- 
tentous "H'm's,"  and  "  Ha's "  and  large  "Amens" 
tucked  up  in  them,  the  strong  clean-shaven  chin,  the 
sandy  gray  side-whiskers,  trimmed  ecclesiastically  close 
like  the  rectory  hedge.  Years  of  living  up  to  a  type 
had  stamped  that  type  on  him  as  his  own.  There  was 
a  priestly  ring  in  his  voice  and  he  appeared  to  take  a 
conscious  pride  in  the  public  management  of  it,  as  the 


BELLA  81 

rider  of  a  fine  steed  might  do,  making  its  tones  respond 
'to  his  control,  and  causing  it  to  perform  occasional 
caracoles  of  stately  inflection  for  the  display  of  its 
admired  contours.  But  the  look  in  his  eyes,  though 
lofty,  was  kind  and  even  genial. 

As  he  came  down  the  garden  path,  with  his  two 
daughters  hugging  his  two  arms,  and  treading  on  the 
toes  of  his  carpet  slippers,  he  turned  a  smile  of  amused 
indulgence  from  one  to  the  other,  carrying  on  a  con- 
versation by  the  mere  use  of  their  own  phrases  in  the 
interrogative,  that  seemed  to  magnify  his  importance 
by  a  fine  air  of  condescension,  as  if  kind  wisdom 
stooped  a  long  way  to  reach  the  intelligence  of  children. 

"  And  so  Blanche  took  Emmeline's  spade,  did  she  ?  " 
"  What !  You  would  like  to  live  here,  would  you  ?  " 
He  was  aware  of  Bella's  presence  on  the  balcony,  and 
of  the  steady  concentration  of  her  gaze  from  the  first, 
for  his  voice — if  not  his  eye — seemed  to  include  her  in 
the  conversation  and  the  radius  of  good-will.  But  he 
did  not  address  any  remark  to  her  just  then,  perhaps 
for  no  better  reason  than  the  diffidence  that  sometimes 
sits  on  the  shoulders  of  quite  mature  and  most  imposing- 
looking  men.  Partly  he  had  had  the  thought  to  do  so, 
but  the  appropriate  words  fell  late  of  the  psychological 
moment,  and  he  relied  on  the  brief  extension  of  a  smile 
that  seemed  to  assume  Bella's  presence  without  actually 
acknowledging  it.  But  the  two  sisters  looked  up,  star- 
ing with  undisguised  interest  at  Bella,  and  then  ex- 
changed words  and  glances  behind  their  father's  coat- 
tails,  and  looked  up  again — and  if  only  they  had  looked 
up  a  third  time,  Bella  felt  sure  they  would  have  smiled. 

They  passed,  all  four,  through  the  gate,  which 
caused  the  sisters  to  relax  hold  of  their  father's  arm, 
running  after  him  with  eager  little  steps  in  turn,  to 
reclaim  possession,  and  Bella  heard  them  cry  •  "  Roger !  " 


82  BELLA 

to  the  Polliwog,  and  they  crossed  over  the  roadway  to 
the  railings  overlooking  the  Parade,  and  took  hold  of 
a  rail  each,  and  put  their  arms  through,  pointing  in 
every  direction,  and  Bella  looked  whichever  way  they 
pointed:  to  the  castle,  to  the  trams  suspended  in  mid- 
cliff,  to  the  very  ships  that  Bella  had  been  counting  a 
short  time  before,  to  the  sea,  to  the  sky.  Then  they 
turned  to  look  at  the  house  they  had  left,  and  waved 
their  hands  to  somebody  in  the  lower  window — their 
mother,  no  doubt.  Bella  thought  first  of  all  they  were 
waving  to  her,  and  was  only  just  saved  from  waving 
in  return.  And  one  of  the  Polliwog's  sisters  declaimed 
something  to  the  lower  window  that  neither  Bella  nor 
the  invisible  occupant  could  hear;  and  the  invisible 
occupant  replied  with  something  that  neither  Bella  nor 
the  group  could  hear.  However,  they  laughed,  and 
one  of  the  sisters  made  a  mock  trumpet  for  her  ear 
with  her  hand,  and  they  all  shook  their  heads  good- 
humoredly  and  waved  their  hands  again  and  moved 
along  the  Esplanade,  pinning  the  rector  against  the 
railings  at  every  step,  and  pulling  his  sleeves  for  atten- 
tion, or  skipping  in  front  of  him  the  better  to  engage 
his  countenance,  and  walking  backward  with  both  hands 
on  his  waistcoat  to  stay  his  progress.  The  Polliwog 
never  once  turned  his  head  in  Bella's  direction. 

Bella  watched  them  till  they  had  gone  beyond  the 
range  of  interest.  Then  she  straightened  herself  to  an 
attitude  of  relaxed  attention,  her  hands  still  laid  lightly 
on  the  balcony,  as  though  she  were  putting  it  away 
from  her. 

"  I  wonder,"  she  ruminated,  "  what  it  must  be  like 
to  have  a  father !  " — a  reflection  that,  had  he  but  known 
of  it,  should  have  caused  the  Reverend  Alfred  Higgin- 
son  to  be  on  his  best  paternal  behavior. 


XII 


AFTER  that,  since  the  clock  in  the  Poet's  room 
showed  half  past  eight  and  there  was  still  no 
sign  of  him,  Bella  must  needs  leave  the  balcony  and  run 
back  to  breakfast.  She  and  Leonie  sat  down  in  the 
little  red  room  together.  Each  said  her  own  grace.  Bella 
put  her  face  into  her  hands  and  said :  "  For  what  we 
are  about  to  receive."  Leonie  lowered  her  eyes  as  if 
some  impropriety  had  shocked  them,  and  screwed  her 
mouth  into  a  button,  and  made  the  prim  sign  of  the 
Cross  with  a  plump  finger  point  over  her  forehead, 
breast  and  shoulders.  Then  each  fell  to  the  business  of 
the  board.  Bella's  breakfast  began  with  a  plate  of 
smoking  porridge,  enriched  with  cream  and  sweetened 
with  sugar,  or  golden  syrup.  Bella  loved  the  latter,  and 
much  experience  of  its  intricacies  had  taught  her  to 
handle  the  succulent  fluid  with  all  the  skill  of  a  vir- 
tuosa,  spinning  the  spoon  dexterously  between  her 
fingers  to  break  without  disaster  the  filament  of  gold 
that  linked  her  helping  to  the  pot,  very  often  making, 
for  her  delectation  and  Leonie's  scorn,  most  wondrous 
preliminary  lace-work  patterns  on  the  porridge  by 
means  of  the  golden  trickle  from  her  uplifted  spoon — 
spheres  and  ellipses  and  geometrical  devices,  and  some- 
times flowers,  and  even  castles,  that  her  kindled  and 
creative  eye  must  watch  to  the  last  obliterative  dissolu- 
tion on  the  steaming  plate  before  her  reluctant  hand 
could  consent  to  destroy. 

Meals    between    Bella    and    Leonie    were    quite    in- 
formal.   It  was  permissible  to  prop  elbows  on  the  table, 

83 


84  BELLA 

to  sit  with  both  legs  tucked  under  one's  frock,  to  run 
to  the  window,  spoon  in  hand,  to  sigh  with  discern- 
ment of  the  vanity  of  all  things  when  the  porridge  was 
at  an  end,  to  shake  one's  head  in  lieu  of  "  No,  thank 
you,"  if  one's  mouth  were  otherwise  engaged,  to  sing 
at  table,  to  quit  the  cloth  without  formality. 

It  made  a  quaint  appeal  to  the  sympathies,  the  sight 
of  these  two,  sitting  down  seriously  to  a  meal,  like  char- 
acters in  some  nursery  tale.  Both  had  their  attitudes, 
keynotes  to  one's  knowledge  and  remembrance  of  them. 
Leonie,  a  buxom  native  of  Haute-Saone,  stolid  on  her 
chair  at  meal-times,  a  sturdy  and  methodical  eater, 
whom  the  process  of  mastication  inclined — except  occa- 
sionally— to  a  ruminant  habit  rather  than  discourse. 
Bella,  like  some  little  princess  in  a  picture  book,  the  sole 
of  one  shoe  showing  on  the  chair  beneath  her  frock; 
her  other  foot  curled  round  the  chair-spindle,  or  swing- 
swing-swinging  like  the  pendulum  of  a  clock  to  the 
inward  humming  of  a  dirge,  her  head  in  the  hollow  of 
her  hand,  poised  dreamily  on  an  elbow  that  slanted  out 
from  her,  her  eyes  full  to  the  brim  with  thought.  In 
such  wise  the  spoon  plied  between  the  porridge-plate 
and  Bella's  lips  until  at  last  the  pattern  on  the  plate 
was  plain  to  see. 

Sometimes,  Leonie  being  in  a  responsive  humor,  the 
meal  was  made  memorable  with  a  game,  the  souvenir 
of  whose  sweetness  the  future  years  might  consecrate 
to  a  soft  and  touching  sorrow.  Bella  possessed  every 
kind  of  game,  in  every  kind  of  box,  that  her  mother 
or  one  or  other  of  her  uncles  had  bought  for  her; 
games  that  had  all  in  turn  been  up  to  bed  with  Bella 
and  heard,  frorri  some  adjacent  place,  the  beating  of 
her  heart,  and  felt  the  warm  rapture  of  her  fingers  in 
the  morning  when  she  woke  to  their  remembrance; 
games  so  varied  and  so  complicated  that  Bella  never 


BELLA  85 

really  knew  their  rules,  although  she  spelled  these  over 
with  the  most  laborious  and  conscientious  care.  "  But 
no ! "  she  cried.  "  Don't  let's  have  rules.  They  spoil 
things.  They're  so  hard  and  horrid.  Let's  make  it  up 
as  we  go  on.  That's  better,  Leonie.  And  you  shall 
begin  first,  if  you  like." 

So  the  most  elaborate  games  were  evolved  out  of 
Bella's  fancy;  flexible  pastimes  whose  course  followed 
first  this  channel  and  then  that,  as  the  current  of  the 
play  suggested,  rules  cropping  up  by  inspiration  to  fit 
circumstances  like  the  necessary  rhyme  to  complete  a 
verse,  or  being  dissolved  the  moment  their  enforcement 
seemed  a  tyranny.  Sometimes  Bella  would  hold  up 
her  porridge  spoon  for  signal  of  attention,  and  then 
thrum  upon  the  table  with  the  fingers  of  the  other  hand. 

"  Qu'est-ce  que  c'est  que  ga? "  she  would  ask 
Leonie,  who,  according  to  the  state  of  her  temper, 
might  retort  with  scorn  in  the  French  that  was  the  chief 
medium  of  intercourse  on  these  occasions :  "  But  whalj 
do  you  suppose  that  it  is?  It  is  yourself,  of  course." 

"Yes.  Of  course,  it's  myself.  But  what  am  I 
doing,  Leonie  ?  " 

"  Doing !  Mon  Dieu,  you  are  giving  me  a  headache.. 
Look  you.  The  table  is  not  a  door  that  one  raps  so. 
Be  tranquil  and  reasonable  and  do  not  hit  me  in  the 
face  with  your  wet  spoon." 

"But  it  is  a  tune,  Leonie!  Don't  you  hear  it? 
Listen!  Turn,  turn,  ti  turn." 

"A  tune!     God  forbid.     A  table  has  no  tunes." 

"  No,  no.  It's  not  a  real  tune,  Leonie,  but  it  goes 
to  a  tune.  Like  this.  La,  lal-la,  la,  lal-lal-lal,  la !  Don't 
you  see?  Now  guess  what  tune  it  is.  Tiens!  Encore 
une  fois — plus  lentement — don't  stir  your  tea  just  yet, 
Leonie.  Make  attention.  Turn,  turn,  turn,  tiddle  turn, 
turn,  turn." 


86  BELLA 

Sometimes  Leonie,  not  to  be  propitiated,  would  cry 
contempt  of  Bella's  tunes.  "Ah!  your  frightful  Eng- 
lish melodies.  They  are  all  the  same.  One  is  just  like 
the  other.  In  France  who  would  listen  to  such  a  tune? 
Be  still  and  let  me  eat." 

At  other  more  indulgent  moments,  the  stolid  maid 
would  be  cajoled  to  lend  an  ear,  entering  into  the  spirit 
of  the  pastime,  and  trying  to  fit  the  drummed  rhythm 
to  some  tune  or  other.  Now  and  again  she  succeeded, 
and  success  so  brightened  her  interest  that  she  was  not 
disinclined  to  protract  this  phase  of  diversion,  herself 
playing  the  "Marseillaise "  and  "Malbrouck,"  putting 
back  her  plate  to  do  so,  and  strange  folksongs  from  her 
native  country  that  Bella,  O  my !  had  never  heard 
before. 

There  was  much  of  the  diplomat  about  Bella,  the 
philosophe  sans  le  savoir.  She  would  not  have  known 
it  by  that  name,  perhaps,  like  le  bourgeois  gentil- 
homme,  who  had  been  speaking  prose  all  his  life  with- 
out being  aware  of  the  fact.  Bella  would  let  Leonie 
win  a  game  now  and  then,  as  prudence  dictated,  or 
strum  a  melody  that  Leonie  had  learned  to  recognize 
as  some  propitiatory  offering  to  the  fickle  divinity  that 
reigned  over  Leonie's  moods,  or  cause  Leonie  to  repeat 
her  strumming  of  some  tune  immediately  suspected,  to 
defer  the  victory  of  solution  and  keep  the  fires  of 
Leonie's  enthusiasm  bright. 

Letters  came  to  Leonie  at  long  intervals  from  her 
own  country,  emaciated  missives  in  the  frailest  of  en- 
velopes, inscribed  in  thin  consumptive  copper-plate, 
with  arabesques  like  the  legs  of  a  spider,  that  evoked 
strange  noises  from  the  recipient  as  she  read :  "  Brrr! " 
and  "Pfttt!"  and  "T  !"  and  "Tiens!"  and  "La,  la!" 
and  "Hein!" 

Bella  loved  these  letters.    As  the  cat  begins  to  purr 


BELLA  87 

at  the  smell  of  its  master's  meat,  Bella's  sympathies 
commenced  immediately  to  kindle  at  the  prospect  of 
being  partaker,  however  humbly,  of  another's  gladness. 
Her  steadfast  eyes  attached  their  absorptive  gaze  to 
Leonie's  as  the  latter  slowly  traversed  the  written  lines 
laid  down  for  them,  backward  and  forward,  sheer  to 
the  precipitous  edge  of  the  page,  the  eyelids  sinking 
imperceptibly  lower  at  each  return  till  at  last  their 
lashes  lay  upon  her  cheek.  Then  wide  open  again,  a 
sheer  leap  of  the  glance  upward  to  the  summit  of  the 
next  page.  Bella's  face  reflected  every  emotion  that 
Leonie's  showed.  When  Leonie's  lips  relaxed,  Bella's 
lips  relaxed.  The  birth  of  amusement,  twinkling  in 
Leonie's  eyes  caused  a  tiny  star  to  dawn  and  brighten 
in  Bella's.  When  Leonie  laughed,  Bella  laughed  with 
such  entire  sympathy  that  it  was  incredible  to  believe 
that  she  knew  nothing  of  the  material  element  of  the 
thing  laughed  at,  and  was  but  a  participant  in  its 
spiritual  and  symbolic  qualities. 

Or  perhaps  it  was  not  a  letter.  Perhaps  it  was  a 
copy  of  Le  Petit  Journal  or  some  provincial  paper  that 
Leonie  unfolded,  limp  as  a  nightgown,  reading  it  with 
her  arms  extended  to  the  full  width  of  it,  as  if  in 
invocation. 

Papers  or  letters,  however,  there  were  real  people 
living  and  breathing  at  the  other  end  of  them — at  some 
unimaginable  spot  over  the  seas.  They  were  a  source 
of  much  speculation  to  Bella,  of  keen  interest,  of 
assiduous  inquiry.  Strangers  in  a  strange  land  are  ever 
willing  to  talk  of  home,  bringing  closer  with  words  the 
scenes  and  faces  that  they  love.  In  the  warm  atmos- 
phere of  Bella's  sympathies,  Leonie's  lips  loosened  at 
times,  her  confidence  unfolded.  She  showed  Bella  her 
beloved  country  through  a  fluid  pride  that  made  our 
England  puny;  spilled  her  tears  in  talks  of  friends  and 


88  BELLA 

home.  Ten  years  ago  little  Marie  died  of  pneumonia; 
here  to-day  at  table  Bella  mourns  for  her.  Longer  ago 
than  that,  Leonie  had  fallen  asleep  in  church,  and 
wakened  all  the  other  sleepers  by  bumping  her  head 
upon  the  floor.  Here  to-day  Bella  laughs  and  says: 
"  O  my ! "  sees  the  scene  as  if  it  were  a  picture ;  won- 
ders this  and  wonders  that.  And  through  a  little  Eng- 
lish girl's  interest  Leonie  sees  more  clearly,  too,  things 
that  happened  years  ago  in  France. 

Leonie  reads  her  letters  to  herself  with  the  as- 
sistance of  her  lips,  and  Bella's  lips  imitate  their  move- 
ment by  sympathy.  At  times  such  surprising  things 
happen  that  even  were  not  Bella  intimately  acquainted 
with  all  these  people  and  places  already,  Leonie  would 
be  bound  to  discharge  some  of  her  own  astonishment  in 
confidences. 

"Oh!  La,  la,  la,  la!  Brrr!  Pftt!  Hein!"  ex- 
plodes Leonie,  with  a  wonderful  rapidity  of  accent  and 
inflection,  like  a  pyrotechnic  display.  "  So  and  so,  and 
so  and  so,  and  so  and  so,  and  such ! " 

"  Never ! "  cries  Bella,  making  the  wonder  seem 
more  wondrous  still  by  a  first  rejection  of  it. 

"  Mais  si!  My  father  tells  me  that — but  hold !  Re- 
gard. Read  for  yourself." 

"  May  I  ? "  asks  Bella  eagerly,  her  fingers  closing 
in  a  proprietory  clasp  of  the  proffered  letter.  "  O  my ! 
Yes.  I'd  love  to.  How  much  shall  I  read?  Every  bit 
of  it?" 

"Mais  non!  Where  the  blot  is,  it  is  private.  My 
father  writes  that  for  me  alone.  Read  from  '  tu  te  rap- 
pelle,  ma  fille — '  jusqu'a — down  to  here,  where  my 
thumb  is — no  lower." 

And  Bella  reads  the  selected  passages  diligently 
aloud,  percolating  them  with  suitable  expressions  of 
surprise  and  astonishment;  stopping  honorably  at  the 


BELLA  89 

thumb,  and  assuring  its  owner :  "  I  haven't  read  a  single 
other  word,  Leonie.  Quick.  Take  it  back  whilst  I'm 
not  looking." 

At  which,  perhaps,  Leonie's  magnanimity  is  touched. 
She  reclaims  the  letter,  scans  again  the  prohibited  por- 
tions, wavers,  relaxes,  says :  "  But  why  not  ?  It  con- 
tains nothing  that  I  am  ashamed  of.  See — take  again. 
You  may  read  this,  also,  if  you  wish." 

"  Does  your  father,"  asked  Bella  at  an  early  stage 
of  these  intimacies,  "  know  anything  about  me, 
Leonie?" 

"About  you?  My  father?  Petite  morveuse — what 
should  my  father  know  about  you?" 

"  Oh,  I  don't  know  what  about  me,  Leonie.  Noth- 
ing much.  O  my!  nothing  at  all,  really.  Of  course, 
he  doesn't.  But  does  he  know  the  least  teeny  bit  about 
me?  My  name,  and  how  old  I  shall  be  next  birthday, 
and  that  you  let  me  read  his  letters,  bits  of  them, 
sometimes  ?  " 

"Mon  Dieu!  Je  le  crois  bien!"  said  Leonie  mean- 
ingly. "  He  knows  all  about  you." 

That  pleased  Bella  very  much. 

"  The  next  time  you  write  to  him,  Leonie,"  she  said, 
"  give  him  my  love,  and  tell  him  I  hope  he's  very  well. 
And  I  hope  your  mother  is  very  well,  too.  Perhaps 
your  father  will  wish  to  send  some  message  to  me  when 
he  writes  again." 


XIII 

THERE  is  a  wonderful  Carl,  who  "spik  fav  lan- 
guage "  in  an  hotel  somewhere  in  the  northern 
counties.  This  Napoleon  of  the  Napkin  was  drawn 
piecemeal  by  Bella  over  Leonie's  lips,  and  to  get  him 
landed  at  all  was  like  playing  a  trout.  Carl  occurred  for 
the  first  time  in  a  letter.  When  Bella  asked  who  Carl 
was,  Leonie  screwed  her  mouth  to  demand :  "  Who 
should  he  be?  Can  there  not  be  people  in  the  world 
but  one  must  ask  questions  concerning  them?  Is  there 
to  be  no  longer  any  privacy?  Carl  is  Carl.  That  is 
who  Carl  is.  It  is  enough."  But  then  her  momentary 
spleen  subsided,  and  she  gave  way  to  laughter,  saying: 
"La  la!"  and  " Mon  Dieu!"  and,  of  course,  " Brrr!" 
and  "Pftt!"  and  "Hein!"  so  that  Bella  cried:  "You're 
going  to  tell  me.  I  know  you  are.  O  my ! "  repeating 
the  name  "  Carl "  triumphantly,  to  whet  her  own  ap- 
petite for  news  of  him,  which  caused  Leonie's  temper 
to  veer  once  more  like  a  weather-vane  in  the  direction 
of  wrath.  "  Who  are  you  that  I  should  talk  to  of  Carl  ? 
Can  one  have  no  friends  to  oneself?  Be  contented 
with  your  dolls.  He  is  my  affair,  not  yours." 

But  Bella's  instant  meekness  left  anger  without  a 
wind  to  stir  it.  Leonie  softened  again  to  a  state  of 
confidence,  through  cunning  modulations  of  wrath,  ap- 
pearing to  rebuke  Bella  for  a  persuasion  which  Bella 
did  not  exercise,  and  succumbing  at  last  to  imaginary 
pressure. 

"Why  should  I  speak  of  Carl!  Mon  Dieu!  You 
are  as  inquisitive  as  the  douane.  You  would  know 

90 


BELLA  91 

everything.  You  have  a  tongue  as  long  as  a  nun's 
rosary.  It  clacks  all  day.  But  do  not  think  I  fear  to 
say  who  Carl  is.  Pas  d 'occasion.  I  care  not  who  knows 
it.  Carl — "  and  she  displayed  a  guarded  portion  of  him, 
to  excite  Bella's  curiosity. 

"  Carl !  "  ruminates  Bella.  "  C'est  done  un  alle- 
mandf  " 

"  Allemandf "  cries  Leonie  in  expostulatory  horror. 
"A  Dieu  ne  plaise.  German,  indeed!  Oh,  I  believe  it 
well — you  say  it  to  enrage  me.  Carl  is  all  there  is  of 
the  most  Swiss." 

Whereupon  Bella  got  the  further  instalment  of  his 
"  magnifiques "  black  eyes,  and  his  superb  moustache 
that  he  sweeps  upward  and  to  either  side,  with  the  back 
of  his  forefinger,  and  his  dress  coat,  and  the  left-hand 
shirt  cuff  on  which  he  jots  names  and  makes  calcula- 
tions with  a  pencil.  And  later  still  the  arms  and  legs 
and  height  and  breadth  and  bulk  of  him — a  big,  fine 
fellow  weighing  nearly  thirteen  stone. 

It  is  understood  between  the  three  of  them  that  some 
day,  when  Carl  has  saved  sufficient  money,  and  shall 
speak  eight  languages 

"  O  my !  "  cries  Bella.    "  Eight?    Leonie !  " 

"  He  spik  fav  olreddi,"  says  Leonie  proudly,  herself 
drawn  into  English  by  the  splendor  of  the  achievement. 
"  Von,  tw6,  sree,  foar,  fav."  And  she  ticks  the  numerals 
triumphantly  against  her  stubby  finger. 

"  He  must  be  frightfully  clever ! "  says  Bella. 
"  Wherever  does  he  put  them  all  to  ?  What  languages 
are  they,  Leonie?" 

"  Zey  are :  En-gleesh.  Zen  he  spik  frangais.  Fran- 
gais — how  you  say  ?  " 

"  French." 

"  Ee-yais — Frainsh.     And  allemand — allemand  ?  " 

"  German." 


92  BELLA 

"Ee-yais — Chairman.  Engleesh,  Frainsh,  Chair- 
man." 

"Three,"  prompts  Bella. 

"  He  spik  fav  language — En-gleesh,  Frainsh,  Chair-  . 
man  .  .  ." 

"  Russian  ?  "  asks  Bella. 

"Polish?"  asks  Bella. 

"Scotch?"  asks  Bella. 

Leonie  cannot  for  the  life  of  her  get  beyond  these 
three — except  on  her  fingers,  where  she  ticks  the 
numerals  conclusively  from  thumb  to  little  finger.  To 
the  very  end  Carl  "  spik  fav  language :  En-gleesh, 
Frainsh,  Chairman  "  with  the  final  two  mislaid.  It  is 
quite  possible,  of  course,  that  Carl  speaks  bad  language, 
which  would  make  four,  or  Double  Dutch,  which  would 
count  for  two,  but  Leonie  does  not  suggest  as  much. 
Perhaps  it  has  not  occurred  to  her. 

It  is  understood  between  these  three  that  some  day 
or  other  Carl  and  Leonie  will  preside  over  an  hotel  of 
their  own — perhaps  in  Switzerland — when  Carl  will 
know  the  highest  price  for  everything  in  eight  lan- 
guages, and  be  in  a  position  to  present  bills  the  length 
of  surgical  bandages,  and  rub  his  proprietorial  palms  to- 
gether in  the  vestibule  and  bid  all  sorts  of  nationalities 
welcome  and  good-by.  And  Leonie  can  assist  the  ladies. 

"  I  spik  Frainsh,"  says  Leonie,  laying  her  fleshy 
forefinger  across  her  left-hand  upturned  thumb,  and 
looks  inquiringly  at  Bella. 

"And  English,  Leonie,"  Bella  promptly  adds,  mak- 
ing Leonie  a  splendid  gift  of  this  difficult  language. 

"  En-gleesh,"  Leonie  proceeds,  accepting  this  con- 
cession with  alacrity.  "  Do  I  spik  it  good  ?  " 

"You  speak  it  very  good  indeed,  Leonie.  O  my! 
ever  so  good." 

"  I  spik  Frainsh,  En-gleesh,  and  a  little  Chairman — 


BELLA  93 

mais  trcs  pen — tres  peu.  Ah,  mon  Dieu!  What  lan- 
guage this  Chairman  !  Somsing  hor-rrrrreeble !  " 

"  Say  something  in  German,"  cries  Bella.  "  Oh,  do, 
Leonie!  I  would  love  it." 

"  Yaw ! "  exclaims  Leonie,  in  a  deep  abdominal 
voice,  with  her  chin  drawn  back  to  her  breast-bone. 
"Ish  wise  nisht.  Das  is  resht.  Man  spresht  Doitsh." 

"  That's  horrid,"  decides  Bella.  "  It's  just  like  sneez- 
ing. Oh,  say  it  again,  Leonie.  Louder  this  time,  and 
more  of  it." 

"  Yaw,"  repeats  Leonie.     "  Ish  wise  nisht.  .  .  ." 

"  It  is  a  fearful  language,"  says  Bella. 

"  It  is  a  language  for  horses,"  Leonie  declares  in 
voluble,  vindictive  French.  ''  To  your  friend  speak 
French — to  your  love,  Italian — to  the  birds,  English — 
to  horses,  German." 

"  I  will  come  and  see  you,  Leonie,"  says  Bella, 
"  when  you  get  your  hotel.  You  will  ask  me,  won't 
you?" 

"  But  not  in  the  season,"  Leonie  warns  her,  speak- 
ing still  in  French,  as  the  correctness  of  her  English 
notifies.  "  Brrr !  No,  indeed !  How  busy  we  shall 
be.  All  the  beds  and  tables  let." 

"  I  could  sleep  with  you,  if  you  like,"  suggests  Bella. 
"  O  my !  That  would  make  less  trouble,  wouldn't  it  ?  " 

"Mais  non!"  blurts  Leonie  on  a  sudden.  "  C'est 
impossible.  Ah!  mon  Dieu!"  and  her  face  relaxes. 

"  You  wouldn't  mind  me  ? "  Bella  asks  surprised. 
"  Would  you,  Leonie  ?  " 

Leonie's  face  is  scarlet,  she  is  laughing  very  much 

"  What  are  you  laughing  at,  Leonie  ?  " 

But  Leonie  will  not  divulge.  Perhaps  there  is  very 
little  to  laugh  at  after  all. 

"  How  will  September  suit  you  ? "  questions  Bella. 
"  Will  that  be  late  enough?  Say  yes !  " 


94  BELLA 

Leonie's  lips  are  screwed  in  consideration.  Ca 
depend.  Her  mouth  becomes  normal  over  a  long- 
drawn  "hein"  Perhaps — but  it  must  be  the  end  of 
September.  Then  Bella  shall  have  a  room  to  herself. 
"Ah,  mon  Dieu!"  Leonie  is  laughing  again. 

"  Will  it  be  a  nice  room,  Leonie  ?  The  nicest  you've 
got — with  two  windows?  Oh,  please— overlooking  the 
lake!" 

Leonie  sobers  and  puckers  her  lips  again.  Perhaps 
there  will  be  some  English  milords  paying  her  hand- 
somely for  the  best  accommodation  she  has  to  offer. 
It  may  be  impossible  to  find  a  bed  for  Bella  after  all. 
But  imaginative  generosity  triumphs  over  her  French 
prudence.  Here,  in  the  realm  of  fancy,  where  hotels 
are  to  be  had  for  the  mere  trouble  of  thinking  them; 
and  hospitality  costs  no  more  than  caution,  what  is  the 
use  of  withholding  the  nicest  room  from  Bella  on  any 
hypothesis?  Ma  foi,  yes.  Bella  shall  have  the  very 
best  room  in  the  hotel,  with  the  big  chandelier  in  the 
middle  of  the  ceiling,  that  jingles  tunes  when  people 
walk  across  the  floor  above;  and  the  state  bed,  with  tall 
curtains  that  slide  all  around  on  wooden  rings,  and 
swallow  the  girl  with  a  rattle  as  if  a  crocodile  had 
snapped  her.  Besides,  it  is  really  Bella  who  is  the 
architect  and  builder  of  this  hotel — Bella  who  well  and 
truly  laid  those  first  firm  foundation  stones  of  fancy  on 
which  the  glorious  imaginative  edifice  is  reared,  Bella 
who  is  hastening  on  the  plans  for  the  nuptials  of  Leonie 
and  Carl,  and  presenting  them  with  this  palatial  Swiss 
hotel,  Bella  who  has  provided  the  lake,  and  the  high 
mountains  capped  with  snow,  and  all  the  waiters  and 
chambermaids  and  decorated  porters,  and  guests  of  rank 
and  riches  that  are  to  fill  its  salons  and  animate  its 
corridors. 

It  was  not  a  long  breakfast  that  kept  them  to  the 


BELLA  95 

table  this  morning,  for  Bella's  ears  were  perpetually 
mocked  with  phantom  peals,  that  caused  her  to  impose 
silence  with  an  imperious  spoon,  crying :  "  Hark !  Is 
that  the  bells?  Listen,  Leonie!  O  my!  it  can't  be  yet. 
Of  course  not !  How  silly !  " — and  Leonie  occupied  one 
of  her  remote  and  inaccessible  moods,  sitting  aloof  in 
spirit,  and  armed  of  speech,  as  if  defending  a  gloomy 
watch-tower;  repelling  Bella's  sallies  of  conversation 
with  the  sword.  "Be  still.  Who  can  eat?  Mon  Dieu, 
but  it  is  impossible.  Since  daybreak  nothing  but  chat- 
ter. One  might  as  well  live  with  the  birds." 


XIV 

THIS  time  the  Poet  was  there.  Bella  could  smell 
the  uplifted  odor  of  crisped  bacon,  and  the  milder 
fragrance  of  coffee  that  met  her  on  the  staircase  and 
called  her  upward,  like  a  voice  of  welcome.  She  swung 
the  upper  part  of  her  into  the  room  through  a  foot- 
width  of  open  door,  holding  the  knob  with  one  hand 
and  knocking  on  the  outer  panels  with  the  knuckles  of 
the  other  (for  Bella  even  in  a  hurry  was  always  polite)  ; 
the  keen  straight  glance  of  expectancy  ran  out  like  a 
lance  to  the  Poet  in  his  chair;  recognitions  followed; 
then  a  rapt  "O  my!"  of  rejoicing;  then  all  of  Bella, 
bringing  laughter  and  added  sunlight  into  the  room. 

And  then — though  the  pen  falters  here  with  a  doubt 
of  the  proprieties — the  sound  of  Bella's  breakfast  kiss, 
bestowed  round-mouthed  and  resonant  upon  the  Poet's 
cheek.  Yet  after  all,  as  Bella  said :  "  What  harm  is 
there  in  kisses?  O  my!  Not  a  bit,  really,  when  you 
come  to  think  of  it."  Bella  kissed  her  mother,  and  she 
kissed  Leonie,  and  she  kissed  Mrs.  Herring,  and  she 
had  kissed  Uncle  Peter,  and  Uncle  Dody,  bestowing  on 
each  one  the  same  big  round  noisy  token — though  ten- 
derer, in  her  mother's  case,  and  warmer,  and  deeper 
pressed,  and  more  protracted,  and  more  plenteous.  And 
what  (Bella  argued)  were  kisses,  rightly  considered,  but 
lips  shaking  hands?  Kisses,  O  my!  were  funny  things 
in  themselves,  when  philosophers  of  Bella's  erudition 
came  to  investigate  them:  just  the  putting  your  lips 
together  like  this,  and  the  pressing  them,  like  that,  and 
the  exploding  them  suddenly  apart  like  bursting  a  paper 

96 


BELLA  97 

bag.  Whoever  invented  kisses?  Was  it — and  Bella's 
voice  made  its  tonal  genuflection  before  the  altar  of  a 
divine  topic — God?  She  thought  it  must  have  been. 
He  had  invented  nearly  everything,  hadn't  he? 

But  then,  shaking  hands  was  every  bit  as  funny,  too, 
when  one  thought  of  it,  and  nobody  for  a  moment 
doubted  any  harm  in  that.  The  point,  debated  earnestly 
between  Bella  and  herself,  had  been  referred — with 
great  solemnity  of  countenance  and  penetration  of  eye 
— to  the  Poet  in  his  chair.  How  was  she  to  greet  him 
in  the  morning,  and  how  take  leave  of  him  at  night? 
With  a  joyous  demeanor  in  the  first  case,  answered  the 
Lord  of  Appeal;  and  a  suitable  resignation  in  the  sec- 
ond. But  what  Bella  really  meant  to  ask  him,  was 
this:  Were  they  to  shake  hands?  In  reply  to  which 
the  Poet  said:  Most  certainly,  if  she  wished  it,  and  her 
hands  were  clean.  But  that,  too,  was  not  quite  what 
Bella  intended.  And  she  was  about  to  formulate  her 
question  in  another  fashion  when  her  gaze  penetrated 
to  the  twinkle  in  the  Poet's  eye,  whereat  she  cast  all 
further  conscientious  appeal  to  the  winds,  and  flung 
both  arms  around  his  neck  and  said :  "  You  know  very 
well  what  I  mean.  I  mean  that!" — placing  the  signifi- 
cance of  her  demonstrative  pronoun  beyond  all  doubt. 

So  the  matter  was  settled,  and  admitted  of  no  fur- 
ther argument,  for  as  Bella  herself  said :  "  Whatever 
was  the  good  of  calling  each  other  Roo  and  Bella  just 
to  shake  hands  ? "  And  after  all,  to  revert  to  her 
earlier  contention,  where  was  the  harm  in  it?  Bella's 
lips  were  as  cool  as  a  blade  of  grass  at  daybreak;  as 
fresh  and  passionless  as  the  dawn;  the  very  exuberance 
of  her  embraces  made  them  proper,  for  the  qualified 
caress  is  already  half  on  its  way  to  become  deceptive 
and  promiscuous.  Bella  bestowed  kisses  as  she  said  her 
prayers  or  took  her  porridge ;  that  is  to  say,  with  gusto. 


98  BELLA 

To  be  ashamed  of  any  one  of  these  might  have  led 
her  to  conceive  shame  of  all  three,  and  so  lost  the 
Almighty  a  very  warm  and  candid  little  worshiper;  for 
he  best  loves  God  who  loves  his  fellow-men,  and  once 
the  conscientious  pruning  knife  is  laid  to  the  branches 
of  affection  there  is  little  knowing  where  its  work  may 
end. 

To  trim  the  growing  tree  of  youth  is  an  operation 
calling  for  the  nicest  skill  and  certainty  of  hand,  the 
true  knowledge  of  what  buds  to  sacrifice,  and  which 
preserve,  the  time  to  lay  the  blade,  so  there  be  no 
bleeding  of  young  sap,  nor  waste  of  tender  tissue.  Good 
gardeners  of  youth  are  few  and  far  between,  and  Mrs. 
Dysart  would  have  been  the  last  to  claim  herself  one 
of  them.  Often,  when  Bella  exclaimed :  "  O,  what  a 
big  sigh  that  was,  mamma !  Whoever  is  it  for  ?  "  the 
girl  little  guessed  it  was  for  her,  or  that  her  mother's 
answer  put  truth  beneath  an  allegory  as  deep  as  Scrip- 
ture. When  Mrs.  Dysart  said  on  one  occasion :  "  Be- 
cause you  are  very  nearly  a  year  older,  Bella,  and  each 
year  of  yours  makes  nearly  two  of  mine,"  Bella  cried: 
"  O  my ! "  and  puzzlingly  wondered  how  that  could 
be,  asking  ultimately :  "  Is  it  another  of  the  things  I 
shall  understand  when  I'm  grown  up  ?  " 

For  Mrs.  Dysart  cannot  have  been  blind  to  Bella's 
dangers;  to  these  beautiful  green  runners  that  grew 
wild  out  of  her  daughter's  disposition  like  fragrant 
brier,  threatening  Bella's  heart  with  their  own  sharp 
thorns.  Some  day — always  approaching,  but  ever  in 
mind  held  remote — Bella  must  be  shorn  like  the  spring 
lamb  to  the  bleak  winds  of  the  world,  all  that  present 
fleece  of  warm  sincerities  clipped  from  her,  her  re- 
dundant affections  trimmed  and  hid  from  sight  like 
her  legs  and  hair,  a  new  Bella,  with  new  eyes,  issued 
fresh  and  wondering  from  her  old  self,  that  takes  life's 


BELLA  99 

hard  and  beaten  track,  seeking  dumbly  from  side  to  side 
"of  her  after  the  lost  pasture  and  the  early  fold. 

But  that  dread  day,  so  apprehended,  is  not  yet.  The 
world  is  Bella's  own,  of  the  substance  and  tissue  of 
her  own  fancy,  as  soft  as  her  dreams.  She  bends  its 
iron  laws  like  wax;  for  her  they  are  no  more  than 
the  disregarded  rules  of  the  games  she  plays.  And 
let  it  be  so,  Mrs.  Dysart  thinks,  till  knowledge  growing 
up  instinctively  within  her  darkens,  in  its  own  time,  the 
sunlit  doorway  of  youth. 

So  this  morning,  thanks  be  to  Providence,  she  is 
herself  untrammeled — Bella  without  ceremony,  the 
daughter  of  impulse  and  affection.  She  runs  to  the 
Poet's  chair  and  flings  her  arms  about  his  neck,  and 
plants  two  fresh  kisses  on  his  cheek,  big  enough  to  raise 
blisters. 

"  O  my !  How  lovely  you  smell.  Is  it  the  tooth- 
powder  ? "  Mamma,  it  seems,  has  a  most  beautiful  col- 
lection of  dentifrices;  pastes  in  tubes,  and  powders  in 
pots,  and  every  species  of  liquid  in  bottles.  Dento  and 
Enameline  and  Ivorisco  and  Snow  Mint — Bella  loves 
that;  it  tastes  just  like  those  beautiful  creams  you  buy — 
and  ever  so  many  more  that  Bella  cannot  remember  by 
name,  though  she  is  familiar  with  their  taste  and  smell. 
For,  of  course,  Mamma  has  the  most  lovely  teeth  the 
Poet  ever  looked  at.  O  my !  He  will  see  them  to-day. 
As  white  as  china  to  the  very  back  and  beyond  of  all 
— and  every  one  her  own.  No — Bella  must  beg  his 
pardon.  There  is  just  one  at  the  far  side  of  all,  that 
is  part  of  it  gold.  Isn't  that  funny?  Bella  loves  that 
one.  It  was  ill  owing  to  a  piece  of  stone  in  a  New, 
Year's  pudding.  The  Poet  must  take  notice  when 
mamma  laughs;  it  shines  beautifully  then,  and  Bella 
thinks  it  makes  mamma  look  prettier,  especially  when 
she  crinkles  her  nose. 


100  BELLA 

All  this  is  whilst  Bella  stands  by  the  Poet's  chair 
with  her  arm  still  lightly  laid  upon  his  shoulder.  She 
has  to  withdraw,  of  course,  to  display  the  frock  and 
the  gossamer  stockings  that  look,  the  Poet  tells  her,  less 
like  stockings  than  as  if  somebody  had  been  taking 
writing  lessons  on  her  legs;  and  for  the  shoe-buckles 
to  be  held  up  to  inspection,  so  that  he  may  see  the  hall- 
mark in  the  silver,  and  pull  a  face  at  his  grotesque 
reflections  in  the  burnished  metal.  After  which,  when 
all  the  girl's  adornment  has  been  sufficiently  admired, 
and  a  strand  of  her  hair  (that  was  shampooed  last 
night)  has  been  proffered  to  the  Poet's  fingers,  that 
he  may  note  its  renovated  softness,  Bella  draws  once 
more  to  his  side,  scans  his  profile  for  a  space  as  if  it 
were  the  horizon  of  a  new  land  of  promise,  and  of  a 
sudden  puts  her  lips  to  his  ear  and  breathes  into  it  a 
hasty,  warm,  and  quite  unexpected  petition. 

It  causes  the  Poet  to  let  fall  his  knife  and  fork, 
exclaiming :  "  Good  gracious,  Bella !  How  you  did 
startle  me."  Bella  is  not  deterred  by  his  surprise,  but 
tightens  her  hold  upon  him,  and  whispers  in  her  most 
persuasive  voice :  "  Do ! "  and  on  the  heels  of  that : 
"You  might!"  and  "Will  you?"  and  then:  "Please," 
and  his  own  name :  "  Roo,"  so  beseechingly  pronounced 
as  to  summarize  all  that  can  possibly  be  implied  by  the 
word  persuasion;  and  then — for  she  has  had  mean- 
while the  fortitude  to  draw  back  her  face  to  look  at 
him — attaches  her  lips  once  more  to  his  ear  and  fills 
it  with  a  sibilant  mixture  of  warm  breath  and  words, 
the  latter  seemingly  all  compounded  of  capital  S's,  that 
overflow  their  intended  receptacle  and  tickle  the  Poet's 
neck,  till  he  must  needs  screw  it  into  his  collar,  and 
would  be  quite  unintelligible  if  some  subtler  sense  than 
hearing  did  not  interpret  what  Bella's  petition  is  meant 
to  be. 


BELLA  101 

The  Poet  says  reproachfully:  "This  is  so  sudden, 
•Bella.  You  take  me  quite  by  surprise.  I  must  think 
about  it,"  and  would  fortify  himself  with  coffee,  but 
that  Bella  lays  hold  of  his  hand  and  imprisons  it,  cry- 
ing :  "  No,  don't  think  about  it.  And  don't  go  on  with 
your  breakfast.  Say  first  of  all  you  will!  Do — and 
afterward  you  are  to  come  and  see  mamma." 

The  soul  of  the  Poet  has  been  aspiring  to  higher 
things  than  church  this  morning,  but  the  look  of  sup- 
plication in  Bella's  gray  eyes,  and  the  grip  of  capture 
in  her  hand,  tell  him  he  is  doomed.  For  there  is  a 
quality  of  sweetness  in  her  importunities  that  he  knows 
himself  unable  to  resist.  Such  humility  and  winsome 
confidence  go  to  their  making,  and  Bella's  demands 
issue  always  with  the  sanction  of  her  beauty  (like 
soldiers  blessed  by  the  Pope)  that  to  oppose  them  hints 
heresy,  or  worse.  It  is  as  hard,  the  Poet  feels,  to  deny 
Bella  anything  as  to  break  step  with  a  military  band, 
whose  very  rhythm  undermines  the  will,  and  takes  hold 
of  reason  through  the  pulses  of  the  blood.  And  Bella 
knows,  or  seems  to  know,  her  power  over  him.  Not 
one  of  all  her  uncles,  despite  their  obliging  and  promis- 
sory smiles,  was  quite  so  much  her  own  as  Rupert. 
Their  laughter  always  reached  her  from  a  long  way 
off,  like  the  light  whose  source  is  a  star — she  was 
familiar  with  its  beams,  the  substance  baffled  her.  But 
Rupert's  laughter,  for  all  it  fell  upon  her  from  the 
tremendous  height  of  two  and  twenty  years,  and  was 
tempered  by  wisdom  infinitely  above  her  head,  had  a 
quality  very  like  and  friendly  with  her  own.  Here  was 
a  true  uncle  at  last.  Or  no;  not  so  much  an  uncle — a 
cousin;  or  better  still,  a  big  elder  brother — how  Bella 
wished  he  were,  her  very  own! — whom  she  might  love 
and  tease  and  trouble  and  be  publicly  proud  of  and 
worship  with  all  the  reverence  of  her  heart  for  a  great 


102  BELLA 

dictionary  or  superb  encyclopedia  on  a  shelf,  filled 
with  knowledge,  and  beautifully  bound,  and  very  fas- 
cinating and  noble  to  the  eye.  She  swung  her  face  in 
front  of  his,  as  if  to  waylay  and  subdue  the  Poet's 
look,  and  caught  the  tail-end  of  an  escaping  smile.  That 
made  her  sure  of  him.  Her  gaze  of  supplication  bright- 
ened to  joy  in  a  moment.  She  let  go  his  hand  as  a 
prisoner  unworthy  of  retention,  and  captured  the  Poet's 
coat  lapels  instead. 

"  You're  going  with  me.  I  know  you  are.  I  knew 
you  would.  I  can  tell  it  by  your  eye.  Oh,  thank  you. 
Thank  you.  THANK  you." 

And  then,  emboldened  by  success,  she  drew  his 
head  toward  her  once  again  and  poured  into  the  Poet's 
ear  that  other  petition,  formulated  overnight,  and  cher- 
ished since  daybreak — the  silk  hat. 

The  silk  hat?  This  time  the  Poet's  surprise  though 
all  of  laughter  and  amusement,  was  quite  sincere. 
Whatever  did  Bella  know  about  his  silk  hat? 

Oh,  Bella  knew  everything  about  it.  Bella  had  made 
acquaintance  with  his  hat-box  in  the  hall,  on  the  very 
first  morning  of  its  arrival,  and  had  watched  it  pass 
up  the  staircase  after  the  big  trunk.  And  Bella  knew 
it  was  a  hat-box,  for  she  had  described  it  to  mamma, 
and  mamma  recognized  it  at  once,  and  told  her  it  would 
probably  be  lined  with  crimson  silk  inside,  because  gen- 
tlemen liked  rich  colors,  and  would  hold  six  assorted 
hats,  and  two  hat-brushes.  And  besides,  Bella  knew 
it  was  lined  with  crimson,  and  there  were  two  hat- 
brushes,  and  there  were  six  hats,  and  one  of  them  was 
a  silk  hat,  because  a  friend  of  hers  had  seen  them  one 
day  when  the  Poet  left  his  hat-box  open.  Which  made 
the  Poet  delight  Bella  with  the  sudden  exclamation: 
"  Bella !  Is  there  anything  in  the  world  you  don't 
know  about  me?" 


BELLA  103 

"  O  my !  I  do  know  a  lot,  don't  I  ? "  Bella  acknowl- 
edged, her  eyes  dancing  with  the  exuberance  of  power. 
But  when  she  told  the  Poet  all  her  aspirations  touch- 
ing the  hat,  and  how  it  was  to  be  the  very  first  silk  hat 
that  had  ever  taken  her  to  church,  what  could  sentiment 
do  but  yield?  Moreover,  the  sacrifice  was  somewhat 
less,  perhaps,  than  now  it  sounds.  It  was  not  such  a 
social  solecism  to  wear  the  silk  hat  on  Sunday  by  the 
sea  in  those  days.  There  had  even  been  attempts  to 
introduce  the  silk  hat  on  the  Parade  during  the  formal 
hours  of  the  morning,  and  though  these  failed — like 
many  other  valiant  efforts  before  and  after — it  was 
not  so  much  because  of  a  lack  of  support  in  high  quar- 
ters, as  because  the  dynasty  of  the  silk  hat  was  already 
tottering  on  its  throne,  although  nobody  at  that  time 
suspected  it,  or  felt  the  approach  of  the  revolution 
which  was  to  convert  its  empire  into  a  republic,  and 
bring  Panamas  and  tweed  caps  into  the  heart  of  Pic- 
cadilly. In  the  days  of  which  we  write — and  for  all 
their  antiquity  they  are  not  so  very  far  remote,  since 
a  whole  decade  of  the  ancients  means  no  more  in  strict 
value  of  time  than  a  modern  year,  where  the  cut  of  a 
dress-coat  alters  vitally  as  many  times  as  six  in  one 
season — in  those  days  even  gentlemen  wore  silk  hats 
on  Sunday,  like  cabmen  and  commercial  travelers  dur- 
ing the  week. 

So,  as  the  silk  hat  then  was  as  appropriate  to  Sunday 
as  the  Harris  tweed  and  golf  stick  now,  and  it  was  as 
correct  to  go  to  church  in  those  days  as  it  is  in  these 
to  stay  away,  the  Poet  could  laugh  with  indulgence  at 
Bella's  vanity,  and  say  in  her  mother's  own  words: 
"  What  a  funny  girl  you  are,  Bella !  "  which,  of  course, 
was  polite  periphrasis  for  "  I  will."  Perhaps,  too,  his 
laughter  was  reinforced  by  the  invasion  of  a  more 
volatile  quality  that  suddenly  poured  into  it,  but  Bella 


104  BELLA 

was  too  much  engrossed  with  gratitude  to  notice  that 
Besides,  almost  at  that  very  moment  the  bells  stole  in 
at  the  Poet's  windows,  one  after  another — an  octave  of 
them — like  veritable  human  beings,  filling  the  room  with 
their  vibrating  bodies,  and  converting  Bella's  grateful- 
ness into  startled  urgency  and  apprehension.  Quick! 
O  my !  Those  were  the  bells  at  last ;  weren't  they  beau- 
tiful !  Bella  knew  they  could  not  be  far  away ;  she  had 
been  expecting  them  all  the  morning.  The  Poet  must 
eat  up  his  breakfast  without  delay,  for  no  time  was  to 
be  lost.  And  meanwhile  Bella  would  run  home  and 
put  on  her  hat  and  gloves,  and  fetch  her  sunshade  and 
prayer-book. 


XV 


WHEN  Bella  returned,  which  she  did  with  magic 
haste,  prettily  flushed;  her  lips  apart  for  accel- 
erated breathing,  and  her  eyes  bright  with  eagerness 
and  activity,  the  Poet  was  already  awaiting  her  by  the 
window.  She  panted  into  the  room  with  an  outburst 
of  commendatory  radiance :  "  O  my !  You  have  been 
quick ! " — and  then  of  a  sudden  the  light  in  her  eyes 
died  curiously  down,  as  if  the  material  of  its  flame 
had  been  but  insubstantial  stuff.  After  all 

After  all — were  silk  hats  and  Sunday  clothes  such 
eminently  desirable  things?  Could  it  be,  for  example, 
that  they  varied  very  much  in  their  capacity  to  bestow? 
Were  silk  hats  and  frock  coats  as  capricious  in  their 
effect  upon  men,  as  fabrics  and  colors  upon  women — 
with  as  much  power  to  damage  as  enhance? 

The  Poet  looked — or  was  it  the  window-light  be- 
hind that  aged  him? — years  older.  To  Bella  it  seemed 
he  might  have  been  his  own  father,  pertaining  to  a 
world  and  age  she  did  not  know.  Except  for  the 
familiar  smile  which  greeted  her,  and  the  familiar  voice, 
here  might  have  stood  some  individual  with  whom  Bella 
had  no  acquaintance.  Between  the  hat  of  Bella's  fan- 
cies and  this  hat  of  hard  fact  was  a  woful  discrepancy. 
Its  brim — when  the  Poet  donned  it  in  indication  of 
readiness — its  brim  was  flush  with  his  eyebrows.  But 
for  his  ears,  which  it  caused  to  protrude  like  brackets, 
Bella  felt  there  was  nothing  to  restrain  it  from  slipping 
altogether  over  his  head  to  the  nape  of  his  neck,  after 
8  105 


106  BELLA 

the  fashion  of  a  candle-extinguisher.  And  then  the 
size!  And  the  height!  And  the  solidity!  It  might 
have  been  carved  out  of  solid  wood.  And  the  coppery 
brown  color  of  it!  Despite  all  her  principles  of  polite- 
ness Bella's  eyes  grew  big,  coming  to  the  surface  of  a 
transparent  curiosity  like  fishes  to  the  glass  side  of  a 
tank,  fascinated  by  what  they  saw.  And  perhaps  their 
gaze  was  rendered  more  audacious  by  the  Poet's  dis- 
regard of  it,  for  he  seemed  in  the  happiest  manner 
unaware  of  Bella's  attention,  and  hummed  lightly 
through  his  lips  with  the  utmost  geniality  and  good 
spirits,  as  he  drew  on  a  creased  and  Sabbath-looking 
black  kid  glove,  devoid  of  a  button,  and  suspiciously 
attenuated  about  the  finger-ends,  remarking  how  favored 
they  were  by  the  weather. 

"  O  my,  yes ! "  assented  Bella's  lips,  but  her  eyes 
took  no  part  in  the  remark,  fascinated  by  the  heavy  hat 
and  the  flaccid  glove. 

"  Indeed,"  said  the  Poet,  drawing  on  the  second 
glove,  "  without  exaggeration  one  might  almost  describe 
it  as  a  lovely  day.  I  really  cannot  remember  at  the  mo- 
ment a  day — at  this  particular  time  of  year — that 
promised  better." 

"  O  my,  yes !  "  responded  Bella's  lips  once  more. 

"  Well,  then,"  exclaimed  the  Poet,  beating  the 
palms  of  his  withered  gloves  together  with  a  fine  air  of 
conclusion,  "  let's  go  and  take  part  in  it,  shall  we  ? 
There's  nothing  more  to  wait  for.  I'm  ready  if  you  are, 
Bella.  Aren't  the  bells  ringing?  " 

"  O  my,  aren't  they  ?  "  said  Bella,  in  a  very  oblique 
and  thin  and  unconvincing  voice,  motionless  at  the  cor- 
ner of  the  breakfast  table,  her  two  hands  linked  to- 
gether by  the  red  morocco  prayer-book  on  the  table- 
edge. 

"  Yes — I'm  ready."     And  after  a  pause :  "  I  think, 


BELLA  107 

perhaps  I  wouldn't  wear  the  gloves,  Roo,  if  I  were  you. 

•It's  not  a  bit  cold.    I  think  I'd  carry  them  in  my  hand, 

with  the  fingers  doubled.     And  isn't  that  a  hole?     O 

my,  it  is !    The  button's  come  off,  too.    Did  you  know  ?  " 

The  Poet  exclaimed :  "  Button  ?  "  in  a  tone  of  vague- 
ness, and  looked  at  the  glove  with  surprising  leniency. 
It  astonished  Bella  to  see  how  little  his  eye  was  troubled 
by  its  patent  deficiencies.  If  the  absent  button  had 
been  merely  a  crumb  he  could  not  have  dismissed  it 
more  lightly. 

"  O,  that's  nothing,"  he  said  with  large  indifference. 
"  There  was  only  one  button  to  start  with.  And  buttons 
are  not  being  quite  so  much  worn  this  season.  Besides, 
they  stop  the  circulation.  Come  along,  Bella." 

"  Yes,"  said  Bella,  still  motionless,  but  making  be- 
lieve to  put  her  own  gloves  in  order  for  departure,  with 
a  touch  to  this  finger  and  a  touch  to  that.  "  I'm 
coming." 

The  Poet  adjusted  his  hat  by  the  mirror,  and  pulled 
the  coat  into  position  over  his  shoulders.  It  was  indeed 
— had  Bella  known  enough  of  classics  or  antiquities  to 
make  the  distinction — more  like  the  toga  virilis  than  a 
coat,  swathing  his  bust  with  folds,  but  the  Poet  seemed 
oblivious  of  any  external  change  in  himself,  and  was  as 
gay  as  always,  if  not  more  so,  crying :  "  Come  along 
then,  Bella.  Let's  join  the  throng."  He  made  a  step 
toward  the  door,  and  the  hat  responded  with  a  lurch, 
subsiding  in  heavy  torpor  over  his  left  ear. 

"  It's  going  to  be  hot,"  Bella  said,  leaving  the  table 
corner  with  reluctance,  still  adjusting  her  gloves.  "  O 
my!  It's  going  to  be  frightfully  hot." 

"  Perhaps  you'd  rather  go  for  a  walk  ? "  the  Poet 
suggested,  showing  the  most  friendly  disposition  to 
oblige.  "  Just  as  you  like,  Bella.  You  have  only  to  say 
so.  I'm  at  your  service." 


108  BELLA 

"O  no,  I  wouldn't,"  Bella  replied  hurriedly.  "I'd 
rather  go  to  church.  But — but  do  you  really  care  so 
very  much  about  wearing  a  silk  hat  this  morning?  I 
don't  mind  a  bit.  O  my!  nobody  minds.  Wear  just 
whatever  you  like,  Roo.  What  does  it  matter  ?  " 

The  Poet  lifted  off  the  heavy  headgear  and  brought 
it  down  beneath  his  observation. 

"  Wear  any  hat  I  like !  When  I've  promised  to  wear 
this  hat  for  your  sake!  And  because  you  asked  me! 
What  do  you  take  me  for,  Bella?  Do  you  think  I 
break  my  promises  as  easily  as  that.  No.  Never !  " 
And  the  hat  went  decisively  back  upon  his  head,  sink- 
ing down  to  his  ears,  and  doubling  them  over  and  ob- 
literating them,  with  a  sound  of  air  compressed  and 
escaping. 

"  Break  your  promise  ? "  Bella  said,  aghast  at  the 
mere  suggestion.  "  O  my !  Indeed,  you  wouldn't. 
Never.  But  silk  hats — silk  hats  are  such  big  things, 
aren't  they?  O  my!  Ever  so  much  bigger  than  I'd 
thought — and  heavy.  Don't  they  make  your  head  ache? 
They  would  mine.  Is  it  a  winter  hat?" 

"  A  winter  hat !  "  The  Poet  brought  it  off  again,  by 
an  uplifting  suctional  process  involving  the  use  of  both 
hands,  and  held  it  before  the  strong  light  of  an  injured 
and  protesting  gaze.  "  There  is  something  behind  all 
this,  Bella.  You  have  been  speaking  and  acting  and 
looking  very  strangely  for  some  time  past.  Don't  think 
me  unobservant.  Is  it  that  you  are  ashamed  of  the  hat  ? 
Be  cruel  enough,  Bella,  to  tell  the  truth." 

"  Well,  Roo,"  said  Bella,  with  soft  concern,  "  I  must 
say  this.  Of  course,  the  hat  is  a  very  beautiful  hat. 
It  must  have  cost  a  great  deal  of  money  some  time.  I 
don't  want  to  know  how  much.  Perhaps  a  frightful  lot. 
Mamma's  hats  do.  But  I  don't  think  it  suits  you — and 
Leonie's  hat  doesn't  suit  her — and  she  says  mine  doesn't 


BELLA  109 

suit  me.  Does  it?  Put  on  your  other  hat,  Roo — any 
•of  them — and  your  other  coat.  And  don't  bother  a  bit 
about  gloves.  I'll  go  without  mine,  too,  if  you  like,  and 
then  we  shall  both  be  the  same.  And  I'll  take  off  my 
buckle  shoes  if  you'd  rather." 

And  then  she  paused,  having  caught  sight  of  an 
apparition  in  the  Poet's  look,  like  a  face  at  a  window, 
and  suddenly  burst  into  radiance,  crying :  "  O  my !  It's 
all  a  joke.  I  know  it  is.  It's  all  a  joke,  isn't  it,  Roo? 
O  my!  How  funny!  And  what  a  funny  hat!  I've 
never  seen  a  funnier  hat.  I've  never  seen  a  hat  half 
so  funny  before.  Nor  half  so  large.  Wherever  did 
you  get  it?  Is  it  Mr.  Herring's?  It  must  be!  I'm 
sure  it  is.  It  came  out  of  the  cupboard  next  to  the 
bathroom,  where  the  carpet-sweeper  is.  And  the  gloves ! 
They're  lovely.  And  the  coat — that's  part  of  the  joke, 
too,  isn't  it  ? "  she  asked  anxiously.  "  O  my !  How 
mamma  will  laugh !  " 

Whereat  she  took  the  hat  into  her  hands,  and 
stroked  it  both  ways,  felt  the  weight  of  it;  measured  it, 
dropped  it,  and  even  made  believe  to  kick  k — to  such 
effect  that  one  could  have  sworn  one  heard  the  kick. 
At  least,  the  Poet  could,  and  so  could  Bella. 

Then  Rupert  departed  with  his  purloined  stock-in- 
trade — even  to  the  cupboard  as  Bella  had  divined,  re- 
turning this  next  time  in  a  miraculous  frock  suit  of 
silvery  gray,  and  a  silk  hat  as  sleek  and  shiny  as  a 
seal  when  it  pushes  its  head  out  of  the  water;  and 
gaiters  of  the  purest  white;  and  suede  gloves,  and  a 
full-aproned  tie  of  shot  silk,  between  the  shades  of 
London  smoke  and  pigeon  blue,  on  which  the  crimson 
fire  of  an  amethyst  gleamed.  He  was,  indeed,  a  figure 
of  whom  any  tailor  or  man-servant  might  be  proud — 
let  alone  such  a  naturally  venerating  little  human  as 
Bella  Dysart.  No  properly  brought-up  young  lady  of 


110  BELLA 

the  least  culture  or  feeling  could  have  looked  at  the 
superb  rectified  crease  down  the  center  of  each  leg  of 
his  trousers  without  a  thrill,  and  no  man  of  spirit  with- 
out envy.  That  such  garments  were  ever  to  be  debased 
to  the  usages  of  common  worship;  to  be  subjected  to 
the  rigors  of  pews  and  the  brutality  of  church  hassocks 
was  unthinkable.  And  yet,  though  the  Poet's  sense 
for  elegance  in  raiment  was  quite  as  keen  and  nearly 
as  noted  as  his  sense  of  poesy,  and  provoked  indul- 
gent mirth  amongst  his  friends,  he  possessed  that  rarer 
art  which  disguises  and  condones  its  more  mechanical 
properties.  As  he  wore  his  hat,  for  instance,  it  be- 
came an  object  of  lightness  and  buoyancy,  sitting  on 
his  head  as  easily  as  a  smile  on  his  lips,  and  becom- 
ing him  nearly  as  well.  And  then,  the  frock  coat,  that 
dangerous  garment  of  dreadful  vicissitudes,  of  show- 
men, and  bookmakers,  and  undertakers,  and  politicians, 
the  pinnacle  of  social  formalism  and  the  sartorial  for- 
mula for  "  I  am  arrived,"  or  "  C'en  est  fini,"  hanging 
over  broken-kneed  wretchedness  like  a  blanket  over  a 
flinching  cab-horse;  the  frock  coat,  that  can  expose 
more  of  a  man  than  ever  it  covers,  and  make  your 
upstart  as  naked  as  on  that  first  day  the  doctor  handled 
him — the  frock  coat  fitted  our  Poet  with  all  the  aptness 
of  a  quotation. 

Its  cut  conformed  most  scrupulously  to  fashion,  and 
yet  so  as  to  escape  its  slavery,  proclaiming  the  wearer 
to  be  a  free  worshiper  and  no  Helot.  On  the  Poet's 
shoulders  it  left  liberty  for  thought;  a  man  might  wear 
such  a  garment,  and  still  have  room  to  think  for  him- 
self; the  very  amplitude  and  balance  of  its  skirt  sug- 
gested an  emancipated  mind,  a  spirit  freed  from  conven- 
tional fetters,  one  who  wore  culture  lightly,  like  his 
clothes. 


XVI 


THAT  was  a  great  occasion  for  Bella.  To  walk 
possessively  by  the  Poet's  side  to  church,  as 
though  here  was  somebody  who  very  much  belonged 
to  her  at  last,  and  take  stray  peeps  at  the  coat  and 
scarf-pin,  and  catch  radiating  glints  from  the  silk  hat, 
and  stars  from  her  own  buckles  and  the  Poet's  shining 
shoes — how  good  this  was!  And  to  cull  all  the  admir- 
ing glances  leveled  at  him;  and  put  up  her  sunshade 
in  the  bright  places,  and  lower  it  nonchalantly  when 
they  reached  the  shade,  like  mamma;  and  set  it  gaily 
spinning  now  and  then  to  accompany  laughter,  as  she 
had  seen  Mrs.  Dysart  do;  and  take  toll  of  all  other 
hats  and  all  other  coats,  and  all  other  shoes,  and  stock 
of  all  other  church-goers,  gazing  at  them  with  eyes  so 
frankly  interested  and  lips  so  friendly  that  her  look 
was  virtually  a  greeting,  exchangeable  at  the  slightest 
flicker  of  reciprocal  friendliness  into  a  smile  or  nod- 
ding of  the  head ! 

For  with  the  world  at  large  Bella  lived  on  the  visible 
best  of  terms.  Houses,  front  doors,  creaking  shoes, 
strange  frocks,  unfamiliar  faces,  the  most  unpromising 
of  babies  in  perambulators,  ragged  children  prodigiously 
dirty,  and  the  profanest  looking  of  men  stimulated  her 
sympathetic  curiosity  to  a  degree  only  short  of  positive 
affection.  And  then,  how  fascinating  to  pass  through 
this  Sunday  Spathorpe,  all  its  familiar  features  trans- 
lated, as  it  were,  into  a  strange  dead  language,  with  no 
French  pianos  glittering  chromatically  at  street  corners, 

111 


112  BELLA 

and  no  peripatetic  string  bands,  and  no  cornet  players 
blowing  melody  or  moisture  out  of  their  instruments ; 
and  no  niggers  with  large  white  collars  and  enormous 
jam-colored  mouths,  plucking  invitingly  with  the  banjo 
at  public  attention  as  they  parade  the  thoroughfares  in 
quest  of  their  promised  land.  A  hushed  and  altered 
Spathorpe,  with  the  most  perpendicular  of  Sabbath 
smoke,  mounting  consonantly  from  its  chimneys  as  if 
the  very  chimney  pots  sang  hymns;  and  all  its  business 
eyelids  sanctimoniously  lowered,  save  here  and  there, 
where  through  a  skewed  or  ill-drawn  blind  Bella  caught 
glimpses  of  the  secular  week-day  eye,  peeping  out  at  her 
from  some  shop  window — a  Spathorpe  animated  princi- 
pally by  worshipers  and  bells. 

It  becomes,  as  they  walk,  a  positive  melee  of  bells, 
each  outvying  the  other  after  the  manner  of  hucksters 
in  a  market,  clamorous  and  competitive.  Little  serv- 
ice bells  of  no  breeding  and  the  most  objectionable 
of  voices,  are  let  loose  like  ill-mannered  curs,  barking 
at  the  big  bells  from  St.  Margaret's.  All  is  aerial 
discord  and  dissension,  and  the  Poet  feels  strength- 
ened in  a  view  long  held  by  him  that  if  the  power 
were  his  he  would  interdict  all  single  bells  as  vaga- 
bonds, and  melt  them  down  into  flat-irons  or  something 
serviceable,  and  sanction  no  belfry  music  but  the  full 
peal.  Time  itself  seems  accelerated  by  this  riot  of 
ringing;  palpitating  with  hurried  pulses.  The  urgency 
transmits  itself  to  worshipers;  footsteps  are  quickened; 
faces  grow  flushed;  prayer-books  oscillate  violently  at 
the  extremity  of  arms,  swung  in  aid  of  locomotion. 
Then,  as  if  exhausted,  the  bells  grow  faint  and  languid ; 
their  sound  falters,  and  of  a  sudden  fails.  The  tense 
sinews  of  time  relax  and  slacken,  and  a  great  serene 
silence  comes  up  and  takes  possession  of  the  sky.  The 
sacred  spirit  of  the  day,  suppressed  and  beaten  by  all 


BELLA  113 

these  clangors,  mounts  supreme  at  last.  The  ungodly 
'  about  the  ways  hear  spiritualized  Amens  that  dawn  like 
the  opening  of  gates  in  Heaven  and  as  celestially  close, 
soft  disembodied  responses,  purged  of  all  material 
dross,  the  slow  expansion  of  hymns  in  blue  space,  un- 
folding from  the  deep  bosom  of  invisible  organs,  blos- 
soming after  awhile  with  countless  elevated  voices  of 
the  blessed. 

But  before  St.  Margaret's  bells  have  altogether 
ceased  to  fling  their  echoes  over  the  town,  how  good  to 
climb  the  great  high  hill  under  the  reverberation  of 
them,  mounting  joyously  above  tier  upon  tier  of  ancient 
Spathorpe  tiles  and  sleepy  chimneys,  and  reach  the  old 
gray  church  at  last  in  its  midway  perch  below  the  castle 
walls;  the  weathered  house  of  God  that  Bella  knows 
so  well  by  sight  and  has  so  often  looked  at  from  the 
high  vantage  of  the  Esplanade  across  the  bay.  By  the 
sunny  southern  porch  she  pauses  with  the  Poet  awhile, 
for  the  porch  is  still  full  of  unabsorbed  parasols  and 
whispering  millinery,  and  the  two  take  a  sentimental 
peep  at  the  serene  semicircle  of  blue  sea,  and  all  that 
white  and  recent  Spathorpe  that  rises  up  into  the  sky 
beyond,  over  the  churchyard  palings  and  ranks  of  re- 
cumbent dead.  Like  ships  within  a  roadstead  the 
crowded  gravestones  lie — foundering  ledgers  and  reel- 
ing headstones,  all  transfixed  in  postures  suggestive  of 
the  rude  seas  of  eternity,  pitching  storm-tossed  still  to 
their  final  doom,  as  if  one  mortal  shipwreck  did  not 
suffice  for  the  moldering  mariners  and  seamen  that  fill 
so  many  of  these  unlevel  graves.  So  closely  do  they 
lie  together  that  in  places  there  is  scarce  room  for  the 
grass  to  push  its  green  fringe  between  their  stones,  and 
differentiate  dead  from  dead.  Here  and  there  a  haw- 
thorn has  its  roots  deep  down  in  what  these  worn  slabs 
commemorate,  and  thrusts  up  a  twisted  stem  through 


114  BELLA 

the  stony  decay,  crowned  with  a  canopy  of  leaves  that 
shine  in  the  sun  and  form  a  little  pool  of  shade  upon 
the  graves  below. 

Bella  views  these  stones  with  gentle  awe,  and 
says  a  soft  O  my! — for  though  she  knows  two  at 
least  of  London's  largest  capitals  of  the  dead,  her 
mind  is  always  susceptible  to  the  cumulative  won- 
der. Bella  knows  nothing  of  the  dead;  never  in  her 
life  has  she  met  this  mystery  at  first  hand,  or  con- 
fronted the  pallid  statuary  of  death.  But  the  word  has 
a  solemn  wonder  of  its  own,  to  be  uttered  with  a  falter 
of  the  underlip,  and  she  pities  all  dead  people  from 
the  bottom  of  her  heart,  and  thinks  how  dreadful  it 
must  be  to  live  beneath  this  weight  of  masonry — if 
what  be  said  of  death  be  true — shut  off  from  the 
warmth  and  the  softness  of  breezes  and  the  blueness  of 
sea  and  sky.  To  this  morning  and  these  moments  by 
the  porch  with  Bella  is  clearly  attributable  the  Poet's 
"  Soul  Haven  " — that  every  schoolgirl  knows — perhaps 
the  most  spontaneous  and  sincere  of  all  his  minor 
poems,  and  bearing  not  the  slightest  trace  that  its  sen- 
timents were  conceived  in  white  spats  and  varnished 
boots.  The  first  line  came  shaped  and  metered  into  the 
Poet's  mind — from  what  shadowy  "  whence  "  he  knew 
no  more  than  we — as  BelUs  fingers  stole  toward  his 
and  possessed  them  softly,  as  though  for  companion- 
ship in  the  presence  of  these  dead,  with  a  sense  of 
shared  gladness  and  thanksgiving,  too,  for  her  own  and 
his  vitality,  and  the  radiant  warmth  and  beauty  of  the 
life  they  lived  in.  Before  the  end  of  the  sermon  the 
Poet  had  composed  quite  six  verses,  including  those 
familiar  lines — so  often  the  text  for  scholastic  para- 
phrase— wherein  he  likens  the  sound  of  the  organ,  ris- 
ing up  in  a  subterranean  tremor  from  the  very  vaults 
at  their  feet,  to  the  liberated  spirits  of  the  dead,  de- 


BELLA  115 

claring  music  to  be  the  tide  of  intercourse  between  the 
'Deity  and  those  that  sleep  in  Him,  renewed  until  the 
last  great  day  when  the  diapasons  shall  roll  open  the 
deeps  of  earth  and  sea,  and  the  universe  shall  pour 
forth  a  music  whose  notes  are  to  be  human  souls, 
mounting  up  in  serene  symphonic  splendor  to  join 
issue  with  the  eternal  sunlight  of  God.  For,  while  he 
and  Bella  stood,  softly  hand-linked  together,  the  ground 
beneath  them  stirred  like  living  flesh,  as  if  the  dead 
moved,  and  the  church  walls  shook,  and  the  sleeping 
edifice  seemed  to  wake  and  draw  breath  through  its 
huge  lungs,  until  the  stained  glass  windows  quaked  and 
the  sunlight  trembled  in  turn,  and  all  these  circumjacent 
solid  and  substantial  things  melted,  as  it  were,  into  the 
permeating  current  of  music,  and  the  world  of  the  dead 
and  of  the  living,  and  the  seen  and  the  unseen,  and  the 
material  and  immaterial  became  one,  tenuous  and  beau- 
tiful, as  transitory  and  eternal  as  thought  itself. 

Thus  listening  they  had  to  wait  awhile,  and  even 
heard  the  raising  of  the  opening  hymn.  Above  the 
music  of  the  organ  the  uplifted  voices  of  the  darkened 
congregation  bloomed  with  a  plaintive  freshness  like 
daisies  on  a  grave-sward.  For  in  Spathorpe  during 
those  seasonable  weeks  the  churches  are  as  much  sought 
after  on  a  Sunday  as  the  Parade  on  a  week  day.  Every 
one  that  has  a  pretty  frock  or  a  new  hat  becomes  a 
worshiper,  as  does  everybody  that  goes  in  search  of 
them,  and  there  are  not  pews  enough  in  Spathorpe  for 
all  the  piety  that  would  express  itself. 

And  though  the  High  Church  of  Holy  Ethelred  on 
the  South  Cliff  is — or  was  at  this  time — by  universal 
proclamation  the  proper  habitation  for  patent  leather  and 
supercilious  silk,  and  gold-topped  vinaigrettes  and  piety 
in  the  latest  and  most  fashionable  perfumes,  and  yawns 
behind  suede  gloves,  and  sovereigns  in  the  collecting 


116  BELLA 

bags — which  are  here  as  broidered  as  a  lady's  satchel, 
and  faintly  aromatic  through  course  of  time  by  contact 
with  the  scents  of  many  soft-gloved  fingers — still  the 
ancient  Parish  Church  of  Holy  Margaret,  crowning  the 
irregular  roofs  and  crooked  chimneys  and  wooden  bal- 
ustrades of  the  olden  town,  calls  its  quota  too  of 
pilgrims  from  the  formal  southern  side,  and  its  bricked 
and  weather-beaten  porch  is  earlier  besieged.  In 
August  its  dusty  vergers  assume  the  dignity  of  black 
rods  and  gentlemen  ushers  about  a  court;  their  nostrils 
are  characterized  by  a  superior  curve,  as  though  the 
drains  were  defective,  and  their  eye  is  as  much  solicited 
as  the  heavenly  Ear.  From  the  assembled  millinery  and 
press  of  flounces  about  the  porch  they  pick  out  a  hat 
here  and  a  petticoat  there,  with  a  regal  beckoning  of 
finger  or  mere  compression  of  lip,  that  casts  the  bond- 
age of  solemn  silence  over  the  selected,  and  leads  them, 
nervous  and  subdued,  behind  the  draughty  condescen- 
sion of  the  gown  to  such  position  in  the  edifice  as  seems 
suitable  to  the  worshipers'  garb  and  demeanor. 

For  the  Poet's  part,  he  would  have  been  content 
enough  to  sit  with  Bella  upon  some  sunny  ledger,  and 
taste  those  finer  essences  of  worship  that  can  alone  be 
culled  when  the  human  elements  in  it  are  judiciously  elim- 
inated, just  as  a  flower — for  the  proper  scenting  of  its 
fragrance — may  be  held  too  near  the  nostril.  Heard  from 
without,  the  sound  of  human  thanksgiving  takes  on  a 
quality  more  divine,  as  if  already  these  sounds  of  praise 
were  acceptable  to  God,  and  transubstantiated  into  some- 
what of  Himself.  The  gray  walls  screen  the  coughs  of  an 
impatient  congregation;  without,  no  feet  are  heard  to 
stir,  nor  wandering  glances  arrest  and  check  the  flow 
of  that  inner  self-consciousness  and  reflection  which,  in 
its  highest  quality,  is  worship.  But  vergers,  through 
much  communion  with  their  kind,  become  keen  readers 


BELLA  117 

of  the  human  countenance,  and  have  wisdom  to  win- 
'now,  far  in  advance  of  that  last  day,  the  true  ear  from 
the  husk,  knowing  your  perfect  gentleman  from  that 
base  counterfeit  of  him  whose  pretentions  rise  no  higher 
than  the  words  "Thank  you  " ;  and  while  the  blissful 
alternative  of  a  seat  in  the  sunlight  shines  upon  the 
Poet's  brow,  the  senior  verger  emerges  from  the  sacred 
edifice,  parting  the  residuary  assemblage  to  right  and 
left  with  a  grandiloquent  cleavage  of  his  wand — as  if 
he  might  be  Moses,  and  they  the  Red  Sea — and  confides 
to  the  Poet  in  a  whisper  half  the  size  of  his  hand,  that 
he  may  perhaps  be  able  to  procure  for  the  Poet  two 
special  places  in  a  choice  locality  underneath  the  lectern, 
if  he  and  the  young  lady  will  follow  him. 

So  behind  the  fluttering  wings  of  this  rusty  gown, 
puckered  up  at  the  shoulders  into  a  dingy  velvet  yoke 
that  fascinates  Bella's  eye,  they  quit  the  sunlight  and  the 
palpitating  warmth  of  it  deflected  from  these  vertical 
and  diagonal  tombs,  and  pass  into  the  dim  profundity 
of  the  church,  where  all  the  collected  faces  that  turn 
at  their  entrance  seem  mere  blots  at  first,  and  their 
silhouetted  hats  like  shapes  half-seen  in  dreams ;  and  the 
church  itself  a  catacomb,  filled  with  the  reverberation 
of  voices,  and  the  smell  of  sawdust-stuffed  hassocks, 
and  salty  flagstones. 


XVII 

BELLA  enters  into  the  service  with  a  zeal  that 
amuses  and  delights  the  Poet.  Once  installed  in 
the  pew  her  eye  makes  friends  with  all  its  new  sur- 
roundings, with  the  subdued  stone  pillars,  and  the 
stained  windows,  and  the  mural  tablets,  and  the  rustling 
hats,  and  profiles,  and  every  eye  that  meets  her  own. 
She  peeps  at  the  lowered  shoulders  and  puckered  sleeves 
of  the  worshipers  in  the  pew  before,  and  the  foreheads 
and  spread  fingers  and  protruding  nose-ends  of  the 
worshipers  overhanging  her  from  the  pew  behind — and 
this  without  the  least  restlessness  or  impiety,  for  if  the 
spirit  of  worship  does  not  dwell  in  Bella's  eyes  it  has 
its  residence  nowhere  upon  earth.  Her  voice  is  heard 
in  every  Amen,  sometimes  with  a  little  quaver  of  in- 
tensity that  seems  to  express  how  grave  and  dear  the 
word  is  to  her.  And  when  the  priestly  tones  invite 
the  congregation  of  the  faithful  to  follow  him  with  a 
pure  heart  and  humble  spirit  unto  the  Throne  of  the 
Heavenly  Grace,  Bella's  clarid  voice  undertakes  the  pil- 
grimage and  keeps  company  with  all  the  rest,  confessing 
her  sins  with  the  pious  unction  of  an  old  and  hardened 
offender,  to  whom  peccadilloes  are  almost  become 
palatable;  just  as  if  she  had  any  sins  to  speak  about,  or 
had  done  or  left  undone  anything  that  could  render 
her  gray  eyes  and  tender  lips  one  whit  less  dear  to  the 
Heavenly  Father  on  whose  hassock  and  in  whose  house 
she  kneels. 

And  in  the  Credo,   when  the  organ  gives  the   in- 
118 


BELLA  119 

toning  priest  his  key,  and  then  spreads  out  a  rolling 
•  harmonic  carpet  for  the  faith  of  the  worshipers  to  walk 
on,  Bella's  voice  rises  to  the  note  established,  and 
audibly  believes  in  God  the  Father,  and  His  Only  Son, 
and  the  Blessed  and  glorious  Trinity,  and  the  Com- 
munion of  Saints,  and  the  Resurrection  of  the  Dead, 
and  the  Life  Everlasting,  and  all  those  other  tenets  that 
have  perplexed  the  doctors  and  lit  bonfires  beneath  the 
crackling  limbs  of  faith.  As  for  the  hymns,  Bella  greets 
them  like  old  friends,  finding  first  the  Poet's  place  for 
him,  and  then  her  own,  with  a  twofold  pleasure  and 
importance,  crossing  one  knee  over  the  other,  and  laying 
the  hymn  book  over  that,  and  turning  the  pages  with 
anxious  urgency  to  be  in  time  for  the  great  uprising. 
At  the  first  line  of  every  verse  something  eager  stirs 
behind  Bella's  lips,  like  the  couching  lark  that  spreads 
its  wings  for  flight  from  the  grass ;  then  her  voice  takes 
wing  and  soars  fearlessly  into  the  thin  treble  ether  of 
song;  now  high,  now  low;  hovering  in  irresolute  sus- 
pension above  her,  or  poised  on  one  long  level  note; 
at  one  moment  bright,  at  another  sad,  alighting  softly 
at  the  hymn's  close  and  folding  its  pinions  with  meek 
and  solemn  submission. 

Her  fearlessness  astonishes  the  Poet.  She  enters 
the  portal  of  the  least  familiar  hymns  without  a  mo- 
ment's hesitancy,  showing  more  piety  in  her  demeanor, 
but  not  less  self-possession,  than  if  she  were  with  her 
mother  shopping.  Her  voice  has  the  outspoken  candor 
of  her  own  eyes;  it  conceals  nothing;  takes  no  shelter 
behind  these  other  voices  so  discreetly  and  tentatively 
raised,  that  cling  close  to  the  cover  of  the  general  hum, 
and  contribute  their  individual  portions  to  the  public 
praise  as  furtively  as  the  meager  coin  slipped  into  the 
collecting  plate.  Of  such  subterfuges  Bella's  voice,  as 
yet,  is  happily  innocent.  Here  and  there,  in  the  press 


120  BELLA 

of  devotion,  a  word  of  puzzling  lineament  may  escape 
her,  or  her  eye,  momentarily  elevated  to  a  gaze  of  rap- 
ture, may  lose  connection  with  the  printed  source  of  it, 
and  be  for  a  moment  as  free  of  earthly  ties  as  her  pro- 
totype the  lark. 

But  like  the  lark,  once  mounted  her  singing  does 
not  cease.  Words  at  best  are  but  a  clumsy  expe- 
dient, incontinent  vessels  for  the  higher  emotions, 
as  every  singer  is  aware.  True  rapture  knows  nothing 
of  them,  and  Bella  sings  from  the  heart  always,  never 
from  the  head — except  that,  at  a  pathetic  word,  or 
touching  line,  she  may  be  observed  to  shake  it.  Always 
at  the  conclusion  of  each  hymn  there  is  a  flush  of  glad- 
ness over  her  cheeks,  and  a  look  of  renewed  amiability 
in  her  glance,  which  she  turns  to  either  side  and  to  the 
back  of  her  as  though  to  make  acquaintance  with  the 
visible  spirit  of  song  upon  these  surrounding  counte- 
nances before  the  next  prayer  obscures  it. 

The  Poet  lacks  the  true  congregational  soul;  the. 
concourse  of  his  kind  inclines  him  more  to  silence  than 
to  song.  For  one  thing  he  nurtures  no  hallucinations  in 
respect  to  his  voice,  and  cannot  believe  that  a  cultured 
Deity  would  wish  to  be  worshiped  by  any  such  imper- 
fect means.  But  after  awhile  he  essays  to  join  Bella, 
not  in  any  spirit  of  emulation,  but  that  the  sound  of 
her  small  and  solitary  voice,  so  alone  and  yet  so  fear- 
less, seems  to  reproach  him  with  the  gentlest  charge 
of  desertion.  Therefore,  toward  the  end  of  each  first 
verse,  or  as  soon  as  he  feels  assured  of  familiarity  with 
the  tune's  outline,  he  begins  to  grope  cautiously  for  the 
bass,  as  though  he  were  seeking  matches  in  the  dark, 
and  makes  a  pleasant  and  companionable  murmur  in 
Bella's  left  ear.  Of  this,  politely,  Bella  takes  no  notice 
first  of  all.  After  awhile  she  grows  curious  to  know 
what  he  is  really  doing  down  there,  like  a  plumber  mys- 


BELLA  121 

teriously  at  work  in  the  basement,  and  twice  at  least 
•  her  own  voice  ceases  as  if  to  make  place  for  these  newer 
and  more  diffident  tones.  But  on  each  occasion  the 
Poet's  singing  subsides  with  her  own,  and  they  face 
each  other  in  motive-seeking  stillness  for  a  space,  or 
Bella  strives  to  decipher  the  inscrutable  gaze  with  which 
the  Poet  looks  before  him. 

When  from  the  pulpit  was  given  the  signal  for  the 
great  sitting  backward,  and  pews  creaked,  and  feet 
stirred,  and  petticoats  rustled,  and  the  congregation 
made  preliminary  trial  of  its  coughs,  and  the  man  in 
white  cast  the  bread  of  his  text  upon  the  subsiding 
waters,  then  Bella  drew  closer  to  the  Poet's  sleeve,  and 
sought  for  his  hand,  and  squeezed  it  with  a  devout 
fervor  as  if  to  confirm  and  communicate  piety,  and  fell 
straightway  dreaming  against  the  Poet's  shoulder. 

Bella  did  not  call  it  dreaming.  Bella  called  it  listen- 
ing to  the  sermon,  but  here  the  Poet  and  an  historian 
may  smile.  Every  now  and  then  Bella  would  fly  down 
from  where  she  had  built  a  nest  for  her  thoughts  in  one 
of  the  rafters,  and  dip  the  keen  beak  of  an  appreciative 
attention  into  the  preacher's  words,  then  back  to  the 
roof  to  spread  warm  wings  over  the  fledglings  of  her 
fancy  and  feel  herself  as  good  as  gold.  For  the  sermon 
is  a  scattering  of  crumbs,  there  for  the  need;  food,  and 
you  take  your  fill,  according  to  capacity  and  appetite, 
and  such  bird-like  souls  as  Bella's  subsist  on  the  smallest 
of  meals;  their  own  happiness  sustains  them,  and  in- 
deed it  must  be  an  austere  divinity  that  asks  of  these  a 
better  worship  than  this.  Bella's  dreams  partook  less 
of  the  nature  of  dreams  than  of  extemporized  dialogues 
between  the  two  of  her — I  and  Me — for  even  in  thought 
for  the  most  part  Bella  sought  to  clarify  her  own  mean- 
ing to  herself  through  words,  giving  it  substance,  as  it 
were,  and  a  shape.  Sometimes  her  dreams  would  be  in 
9 


122  BELLA 

essence  homilies,  delivered  by  one  half  of  her  to  the 
other,  on  sundry  or  special  duties. 

"  And  to-day  I  must  not  enjoy  myself  aloud,  for 
Leonie  has  a  headache.  And  I  have  to  feel  dreadfully 
sorry.  And  so  I  am.  And  after  a  little  while  I  must  ask 
Leonie  again  how  she  does.  But  not  too  soon,  for  that 
will  only  make  her  cross  and  say:  'Man  Dieu!  Is  a 
sick  headache  to  be  cured  with  questions  ?  ' ' 

Or  the  dreams  were  tender  appreciations  of  her 
mother,  the  choicest  blossoms  of  Bella's  love,  plucked 
and  garlanded  and  scented  with  a  dutiful  delight,  and 
offered  implicitly  to  the  better  of  the  two  Mrs.  Dysarts, 
the  spiritual  and  metamorphosed  mother  who  had  her 
habitation  in  Bella's  bosom. 

Offerings  to  her  beauty :  "  Mamma  is  very  beauti- 
ful!— yes,  indeed!  Nobody  in  the  world  is  a  thousand 
times  half  so  beautiful  as  mamma.  Mamma  says  she's 
not  a  bit  as  beautiful  as  lots  of  people,  but  I  don't 
believe  that.  I  believe  mamma  is.  O  my !  But  mamma 
says  it  because  she's  nice,  and  she  says  nice  people  must 
never  speak  the  truth  about  themselves,  except  when  it's 
nasty;  or  the  truth  about  anybody  else,  except  when 
it's  nice.  If  they  do,  nobody  will  believe  them.  And 
that  seems  funny  too,  but  I  don't  care.  I  know  mamma 
is  beautiful,  and  I  know  she's  good,  and  I  love  her 
better  than  anybody  else  in  the  whole  world." 

Speculations  on  the  nature  of  her  mother's  love: 
"  Why  does  she  love  me  so,  I  wonder  ?  It  can't  be  for 
what  I've  got,  for  I've  got  nothing  at  all  except  lots  of 
nice  things  that  mamma  has  bought  for  me  herself ;  nice 
things  that  other  girls  have  to  be  thankful  for  going 
without. 

"  I'm  glad  I'm  not  mamma,  for  then  I  should  only 
have  me  to  love,  and  I  shouldn't  love  me  half  as  much 
as  she  does.  And  O  my!  I  shouldn't  have  anything 


BELLA  123 

to  give  myself.  No  chocolates,  and  no  shillings  for  my 
savings-box,  and  no  money  to  buy  mamma  presents  on 
her  birthdays  and  other  days.  Whatever  should  I  do 
without  her  ?  " 

Or  her  dreams  were  slender  yarns  of  fiction  woven 
diligently  on  her  little  inventive  loom,  a  thing  of  obvious 
mechanism,  quaint  as  ninepins,  primitive  as  the  fig-leaf, 
yet  capable  of  great  results,  too,  beneath  Bella's  busy 
fingers. 

One  half  would  come  and  ask  the  other  half :  "  Tell 
me  a  tale." 

And  the  other  half  would  purse  its  lips  and  put  up 
its  remindful  forefinger  and  reply:  "If  you  what?" 

"  If  you  please,"  the  first  half  would  answer  humbly. 

"  Then,"  says  the  other  half,  "  I  am  Aunt  Jane  from 
America.  No,  I  am  the  poor  woman  that  keeps  the 
little  goody  shop,  whose  husband  was  killed  in  the 
shocking  railway  accident,  and  you're  lame  Bessie  with 
a  crutch." 

"  Be  Uncle  Alfred,"  pleads  the  first,  "  with  a  sword, 
and  medals  on  his  breast.  And  I'm  Jim.  Then  we 
can  have  guns  and  talk  deep.  I'm  tired  of  being  lame 
any  longer.  It  hurts  my  legs." 

"  No !  "  decides  the  second.  "  Don't  let's  be  Uncle 
Alfred  either.  And  we  won't  be  the  shepherd  and  his 
faithful  dog,  and  be  frozen  to  death  again  to-day.  Let's 
be  the  Battle  of  Waterloo,  and  you're  the  French.  And 
I  don't  like  that,  too.  Let's  be  mamma.  That's  lovely. 
Let's.  And  I'm  sitting  on  mamma's  knee,  and  I'm 
mamma,  and  I  must  ask  mamma  for  a  tale,  and  that's 
you." 

"  Oh,  how  lovely !    Now,  I  will  ask." 

"  But  mamma  must  be  busy  first  of  all.  First  of  all 
mamma  says  there  will  not  be  time,  for  she  is  going 
out  to  a  dinner  party  with  that  lovely  rope  of  pearls 


124  BELLA 

around  her  neck.  And  Leonie  is  waiting  for  her  up- 
stairs. But  there  will  be  time  really — only  it's  ever  so 
much  nicer  to  begin  by  being  disappointed.  Then  you 
enjoy  things  better.  Now,  ask.  Give  mamma  a  kiss 
like  I  always  do." 

"  Mamma." 

"Yes,  darling?" 

"  That  was  a  nice  tale  you  told  me,  wasn't  it  ?  O 
my!  Awfully  nice." 

"What  tale  was  that,  Bella?" 

"That  about  the  little  girl  whose  sisters  were  un- 
kind to  her  because  she  was  so  pretty,  and  made  her 
drink  out  of  the  cat's  bowl  .  .  ." 

"You  liked  it,  Bella?" 

"Oh,  yes,  indeed.  Ever  so  much.  I  like  all  the 
tales  you  tell  me.  No  one  tells  tales  like  you.  Why 
don't  you  make  them  into  a  book?  Please,  tell  me  an- 
other, mamma." 

"Another!  O  Bella!  You  seem  to  think  mamma 
is  made  of  tales.  Not  this  evening,  dear.  Mamma  has 
not  a  moment.  She  must  go  upstairs  and  dress  for  a 
horrid  dinner  party." 

"  Just  one,  mamma.  Ever  such  a  teeny  one.  Please — 
Oh,  ever  so  many  pleases !  "  (And  then  I  give  mamma 
a  kiss,  and  say :  "  Well?  "  and  mamma  says :  "  Well !  ") 

"  Well  ?  "  (And  then  I  say :  "  You  will,  won't  you  ?  " 
and  mamma  says :  "  O  Bella,  what  a  dreadful  little 
limpet  you  are !  ") 

"  O  Bella,  what  a  dreadful  little  limpet  you  are !  " 
(And  then:  "Once  upon  a  time  .  .  .") 

"  Once  upon  a  time.  There  lived.  Many  years 
ago  .  .  ." 

And  Bella's  hand-loom  begins  to  stir,  and  a  little 
princess  sits  weaving  herself  into  her  own  fairy-tale. 


XVIII 

THEN,  one  after  another,  the  places  of  worship 
peal  to  the  jubilant  music  of  release,  pouring  out 
expansive  congregations  through  darkened  porches  into 
the  golden   air;   huge   variegated   caterpillars   that   eat 
their  way  with  sinuous  industry  to  the  Esplanade. 

For  in  these  delectable  Bella-virumque  days  the 
Spathorpe  church  parade  is  still  an  institution.  It  is  the 
apotheosis  of  the  secular  parade,  transported  to  the 
stately  terrace  of  the  cliff,  where  the  crowd  of  fashion 
floats  in  Sunday  languor,  as  conscious  of  its  self- 
importance  mirrored  from  eye  to  eye,  as  a  swan  that 
sits  enthroned  in  pride  upon  his  white  reflection.  All 
the  least  important  people  make  it  their  business  to  be 
there,  and  many  of  the  most  important  their  pleasure. 
On  this  one  morning  of  the  week  the  Parade  proper  is 
deserted,  and  becomes  the  Parade  very  improper  in- 
deed. Nobody  is  to  be  found  there  except  Nobody  him- 
self, or  invalids  wrapped  in  rugs,  or  detestable  people 
who  merely  come  to  Spathorpe  for  their  health,  sniffing 
ostentatiously  at  its  breezes,  as  though  loth  to  lose  one, 
and  pointing  with  plebeian  rapture  at  its  bay.  Incon- 
sequential people  who  make  no  effort  to  conceal  their 
feelings,  and  achieve  all  their  pleasures  in  one  suit  of 
clothes.  For  these  and  such  as  these  the  Esplanade  on 
Sunday  morning  is  no  place;  for  there  formality  stalks, 
a  specter,  and  many  move  in  patent  fear  of  it.  The 
feelings  are  led  in  leash  like  dogs  of  pedigree,  not  to 
be  allowed  association  with  the  vulgar  race  of  emotions ; 

125 


126  BELLA 

and  human  beings  make  strange  and  fashionable  shapes 
with  their  mouths,  and  seek  and  shirk  each  other's  eyes ; 
and  manners  are  wonderfully  grand.  In  the  supreme 
half  hour  between  devotion  and  lunch,  thousands  of  feet 
trample  their  impress  to  and  fro  in  the  softened  road- 
way, and  tread  out  tears  of  aromatic  tar,  concerting  a 
surfy  turmoil  that  obliterates  the  murmur  of  the  sea, 
and  raising  a  fine  impalpable  dust  to  titillate  the  nostrils 
like  snuff.  From  the  high-reared  bridge  of  iron,  fili- 
greed  against  the  blue  sky  across  the  valley,  that  links 
the  older  Spathorpe  with  the  new,  to  where  ungodly 
builders  play  leapfrog  with  residential  villas  down  the 
coast,  and  contend  among  themselves  for  the  latest  word 
and  the  last  smell  of  bricks  and  mortar,  the  broad  and 
undulating  roadway  becomes  a  channel  scarcely  ade- 
quate for  the  turgid  stream  of  life;  here  intersected 
dizzily  with  cross-currents,  there  sucked  into  vortex- 
like  circles  of  converse,  now  sweeping  the  full  breadth 
of  the  Esplanade,  or  splitting  on  the  prominence  of  a 
rubber-tired  landau  or  open  brougham,  that  breasts  and 
cleaves  the  seething  current  like  a  rock;  or  a  Bath  chair 
half  submerged  in  the  human  flood,  behind  the  stooping 
shoulders  of  its  attendant,  some  aged  man  more  feeble 
than  the  freight  he  pulls.  From  the  Poet's  balcony,  if 
he  and  Bella  were  but  there  to  see,  the  stream  shows 
thick  and  viscid;  a  syrup  of  slow-circulating  colors  like 
the  gravely  bubbling  molten  stuff  of  which  the  sugar 
sweets  are  made,  whose  hues  attenuate  and  mingle,  and 
yet  refuse  to  melt. 

There  is  a  plethora  of  prayer-books.  Hats  describe 
parabolas  to  the  balconies  and  to  other  hats.  Every 
kind  of  hat  over  every  kind  of  smile,  last  year's  shape 
marveling  at  the  monstrosity  of  this.  The  hot  rails 
that  surmount  the  steep  cliff  gardens  of  the  Parade  are 
lined  with  postured  loungers  of  both  sexes  for  half  a 


BELLA  127 

mile  or  more,  some  of  whom  have  been  rehearsing  their 
attitudes  during  the  past  hour,  in  preparation  for  this 
public  moment.  Every  phase  of  vanity  finds  expression. 
Men  attitudinize  over  cigars;  youth  arrives  at  pro- 
digious self-importance  by  means  of  the  cigarette.  The 
sexes  are  all  agog  wtih  strife  to  impress  and  subjugate 
each  other.  Voices  catching  the  epidemic  of  importance, 
rise  in  tonal  rivalry  and  become  competitive.  Eyes 
grow  disdainful,  lips  supercilious.  Laughter  is  ex- 
ecuted with  all  the  care  of  a  five-finger  exercise.  Every- 
body is  acting  more  or  less,  and  the  disease,  aggravated 
by  numbers,  spreads.  Everybody  is  desirous  of  being 
taken  for  somebody  else,  and  somebody  better.  Visitors 
at  Spathorpe  fail  frequently  to  recognize  their  friends, 
and  are  not  overjoyed  to  see  them  when  they  do;  it  is 
so  much  easier  to  act  before  strangers.  And  since  this 
vast  crowd  is  collected  from  all  the  four  corners  of  the 
universe,  and  its  units  for  the  most  part  are  quite 
unknown  to  each  other,  and  there  is  no  salutary  curb 
upon  the  vanities,  the  most  preposterous  pretentions  go 
abroad.  It  is  a  game  of  poker,  with  countenances  and 
demeanors  for  the  cards,  and  on  the  promenade  the 
philosopher  or  the  student  of  humanity  may  find,  in 
half  an  hour,  instruction  or  amusement  enough.  The 
moral  virtues  and  sincerities  have  no  value  here;  only 
the  outward  figuration  counts.  Except  in  the  case  of 
an  exalted  few,  all  this  moving  world  judges  and  is 
judged  by  externals — a  form  of  judgment  that  falls 
mercilessly  on  merit.  If  one  had  only  known,  for  in- 
stance, that  it  was  the  duke  himself  who  trod  upon  one's 
toes  in  the  crowd  around  the  Buffet,  yesterday  .  .  . 

For  the  rest,  actors  with  blue  chins  and  black  eye- 
brows are  well  received  at  Spathorpe — many  of  them 
much  better  there  than  behind  the  footlights.  So  are 
the  men  who  look  like  them,  men  reminiscent  of  photo- 


128  BELLA 

graphs  seen  in  shop  windows,  of  faces  that  celebrity 
has  made  more  familiar  to  us  than  our  own.  Men 
who  possess  the  air  of  having  done  something,  or  of 
never  having  done  anything  in  their  lives,  may  count 
on  Spathorpe's  favor,  so  long  as  they  time  their  visit 
wisely  and  do  not  stay  till  they  be  known.  If  only  you 
have  beauty  or  ugliness  enough,  or  a  face  that  lends 
itself  with  ease  to  remembrance  or  caricature,  or  prac- 
tice a  daily  habit  on  the  Parade,  be  sure  you  will  be  noted 
in  the  end,  and  decorated  with  a  nickname,  and  people 
will  account  you  Somebody  in  this  chaotic  empire  of 
externals,  and  remark  your  absence  when  you  leave. 

But  for  the  Poet — though  he  and  Bella  contribute 
their  footsteps  to  the  sluggish  mass  of  promenaders, 
and  look  and  are  looked  at — the  morning  is  less  mem- 
orable for  this  than  for  his  first  meeting  with  Mrs. 
Dysart.  Hitherto,  he  has  seen  of  her  nothing,  now  he 
is  to  see  a  great  deal.  She  has  been  known  to  him  only 
in  the  guise  that  Bella's  lips  have  given  her,  childish 
glorifications  rather  than  portrayals,  so  superlative  that 
they  serve,  indeed,  to  whet  the  Poet's  appetite,  but  yet 
to  dull  its  edge,  with  preconscious  disappointment.  He 
thinks  this  Mrs.  Dysart  of  his  knowledge  must  be,  after 
all,  a  mere  exalted  denizen  of  Bella's  heart,  having  no 
counterpart  in  reality,  born  of  love  and  nurtured  in 
affection,  and  garbed  in  generous,  donated  qualities  like 
beauty  in  a  gift  of  furs.  To-day,  when  Rupert  and 
Bella  have  finished  their  promenade  (which  will  be 
quite  presently)  our  Poet  is  to  adjust  all  these  impres- 
sions by  actual  experience,  remodel  them  if  necessary, 
and  (we  have  yet  to  learn)  perhaps  dispense  with  them 
altogether  in  favor  of  more  reliable  data. 


XIX 

CROMWELL  LODGE,  as  every  Spathorpe  lover 
knows,  stands  in  the  shelter  of  the  green  and  silent 
square  behind  the  Esplanade,  with  a  side-glance  along 
the  level  asphalt  of  Cromwell  Gardens  to  the  sea.  It 
is  the  large  stuccoed  hybrid-Gothic  villa,  made  up  of 
mullioned  windows,  with  a  crenellated  parapet  and  an 
embattled  porch,  in  which  frowns  a  dark  oak  door 
studded  with  tremendous  bolts,  and  hung  on  great 
hinges,  and  furnished  with  a  portentous  lyre-shaped 
knocker  whose  percussive  tongue  might  wake  the  echoes 
of  a  convent.  It  memorializes  the  prosperity  and  the 
taste  of  a  midland  tradesman,  who  aspired  to  dignify 
retirement  within  these  presumptuous  walls,  to  fortify 
himself  against  the  rude  assaults  of  commerce,  and 
sustain  a  siege  against  his  own  past.  He  died  before 
the  glaziers  had  removed  their  whitening  from  its 
windows,  and  the  house  descended  into  hands  which 
relinquish  it  each  season  for  lucre.  Royalty,  it  is  whis- 
pered, has  found  some  entertainment  there ;  and  emerged 
from  that  frowning  but  not  unfriendly  porch,  into  the 
silent  starlit  Spathorpe  of  the  pallid  small  hours;  and 
through  the  house's  seasonal  vicissitudes  some  well 
known  figures  in  the  world  of  wealth  and  beauty  have 
cast  their  shadows  on  its  brilliant  blinds. 

The  pages  of  its  history,  if  not  unsoiled,  present  at 
least  an  edge  of  opulent  and  gilded  sanctity  toward  the 
world,  and  form  matter  for  keen  and  interested  perusal. 
In  these  days  of  Bella  and  the  Poet,  the  house — though 

129 


130  BELLA 

neither  of  them  knows  it — is  not  less  barometric  of  the 
brilliancy  of  the  season  than  the  fashionable  Sceptre  on 
the  Esplanade,  that  Bella  admires  so  much;  or  the  vast 
Majestic  that  thrusts  its  three  great  cupolas  high  into 
the  blue  sky  at  the  head  of  the  South  Bay.  With  the 
advent  of  each  summer  the  eye  of  Spathorpe  sharpens 
in  its  scrutiny  of  Cromwell  Lodge  for  signs  of  occu- 
pancy, and  calculates  the  chances  of  the  season  by  the 
lateness  or  earliness  of  the  decorator's  work  upon  it. 
When  the  painters'  ladders  complicate  its  walls  in  April, 
and  the  window-cleaners  wring  out  their  wash-leathers 
while  the  spring  winds  still  are  keen  enough  to  make 
their  fingers  blue,  or  the  furniture  van  brings  its  gloomy 
bulk  into  the  square  before  the  leaves  of  the  plane  trees 
round  the  central  grass  plot  have  lost  their  first  juvenile 
green,  then  a  lengthier  season  may  be  apprehended,  and 
Spathorpe — which  lives  as  sadly  as  a  hibernating  tor- 
toise when  its  visitors  are  gone — feels  the  congenial 
warmth  of  impending  gaiety,  and  slowly  comes  to  life 
again,  and  the  house  agent's  clerk,  with  creased  sleeves 
and  ink  on  his  celluloid  cuff-protectors,  runs  around  to 
the  office  of  the  Spathorpe  Mercury  with  a  paragraph 
announcing  that  Cromwell  Lodge  has  been  let  by  his 
firm  for  the  month  or  season  as  the  case  may  be,  to 
Mrs.  X  or  Mrs.  Z,  or  the  Hon.  So  and  So  and  family, 
with  tutor  and  governess  and  domestic  staff;  and  the 
junior  reporter  of  the  Spathorpe  Mercury — which  is,  or 
was,  that  limp  and  humid  journal  produced  by  bron- 
chial gas-power  in  the  side  street  of  Cliffborough,  that 
smokes  when  new  like  a  bath  towel  in  the  sun,  and  is 
coated  with  such  profusion  of  printer's  ink  as  to  give 
it  the  intensity  of  an  obituary  number.  In  winter  it 
shrinks  over  an  utter  absence  of  news  to  no  proportions 
at  all,  like  a  mendicant's  shawl  over  a  nipped  stomach, 
swelling  in  summer  to  as  much  as  four  pages  of  visitors, 


BELLA  131 

whose  multitude  makes  so  large  a  demand  upon  type 
that  some  of  the  names  perforce  must  be  re-spelled,  or 
taxed  of  a  letter,  or  entered  in  italics  (which  seems  to 
suggest  an  aspersion  on  the  owner's  character)  or  ruth- 
lessly shorn  of  their  capitals  to  admit  of  inclusion  at  all 
— the  junior  reporter  of  the  Spathorpe  Mercury,  rilled 
with  the  exuberance  of  one  who  holds  a  shorthand 
certificate  for  eighty  words  a  minute,  and  has  done  on 
occasions  even  more,  hurries  around  Spathorpe  with  his 
notebook  and  stenographic  pencil  to  take  statistics  of 
hotels  and  lodging-houses  and  painters  and  decorators, 
and  compiles  a  forecast  of  the  season  so  sanguine  that 
by  the  next  post  advertisements  of  rooms  to  let  reach 
the  office  a  month  before  their  wont.  Whereupon  the 
grocers  and  provision  merchants  wax  active,  and  the 
butchers  and  dairymen,  and  the  letter-box  of  Cromwell 
Lodge  is  gorged  with  daily  circulars.  And  Spathorpe 
keeps  its  eyes  upon  the  windows,  too,  for  tokens  of 
transformation — for  Cromwell  Lodge,  it  knows,  is  not 
to  be  occupied  for  nothing,  and  though  poverty  may  be 
more  honest,  wealth  is  certainly  more  interesting.  De- 
spite its  taste,  the  villa,  locked  in  on  two  sides  by  its 
own  walls,  is  not  an  undesirable  shelter  for  summer 
idleness,  and  those  who  come  and  go  through  its  studded 
door,  or  show  their  vestiges  occasionally  behind  its  solid 
mullions  may  count  on  being  envied. 

Bella  does  not  lead  the  Poet  through  the  battle- 
mented  porch  this  morning,  but  through  the  nearer, 
smaller  door,  deep  sunk  in  the  plaster  of  the  side  wall, 
which  gives  admission  by  a  descent  of  two  steps  into 
the  square  of  a  sunlit  garden.  The  garden  is  not  large 
— indeed,  the  contrary;  nor  is  it  altogether  private,  for 
several  upper  windows  of  adjacent  houses  look  down 
into  it  with  differing  degrees  of  frankness  or  obliquity; 
nor  does  it  offer  much  by  way  of  beauty  other  than 


132  BELLA 

comes  from  the  conjunction  of  sunlight  with  sheltered 
green.  There  is  a  molded  concrete  fountain  in  the  mid- 
dle of  the  lawn,  whose  slender  jet  of  water  dances 
merrily  to  an  indefatigable  tinkling  tune;  and  in  the 
mossy  basin  down  below  there  are  goldfish  fanning  their 
indolent  fins,  for  Bella  takes  the  Poet's  hand  and  draws 
him  across  the  grass  to  look  at  them.  And  there  are 
two  parterres  ablaze  with  red  and  yellow  begonias, 
whose  fleshy  blooms  flag  a  little  in  the  noonday  heat; 
and  set  around  about  the  lawn  are  rose  standards,  and 
in  the  border  by  the  walls,  green  ferns  and  phloxes  and 
tapering  hollyhocks,  between  which  and  the  rectangular 
lawn  a  gravel  pathway  runs.  There  is  a  florid  summer- 
house,  too,  of  so-called  rustic  woods,  embowered  in 
clematis  and  drooping  jessamine,  its  doorway  cut 
diagonally  in  shadow  by  the  midday  sun,  and  a  blind- 
ing garden  seat,  white  painted,  which  stares  across  the 
plot  of  green. 

So  much  the  Poet  briefly  notes  as  Bella  takes  his 
sleeve  and  draws  him  to  the  tinkling  fish  basin,  whose 
finny  occupants  move  with  cool  disdain  beneath  the  sky- 
blue  water  in  the  shadow  of  their  mirrored  images,  but 
scarcely  have  they  stooped  to  contemplation  before  his 
mercurial  little  guide  turns  swiftly  on  her  heel  and  blos- 
soms all  at  once  into  the  most  radiant  flowers  of 
recognition,  a  nosegay  of  greetings,  toward  the  large 
six-mullioned  window,  shaded  by  as  many  lowered  sun- 
blinds,  red  and  white,  that  thrusts  its  bay  into  the 
garden.  Through  the  open  sashes,  in  the  dimness  of 
the  room  beyond,  a  .seated  figure  is  rather  to  be  divined 
than  visible,  but  Bella's  eyes  are  as  penetrative  as 
needles  when  it  comes  to  love.  She  cries :  "  Mamma !  " 
and  claps  her  hands  with  all  the  joy  for  a  rare  butterfly, 
and  speeds  across  the  lawn  to  the  big  window,  whose 
sill  is  higher  than  her  forehead;  laying  her  finger-tips 


BELLA  133 

upon  it,  and  jumping  up  for  glimpses  of  the  desired 
presence  beyond,  her  lips  voluble  with  words  of  greet- 
ing and  inquiry. 

At  first,  impulsively,  she  makes  a  skipping  rope 
of  all  their  morning's  doings,  leaping  nimbly  with  her 
sentences  to  clear  the  interceptive  sill,  until  the  color 
mounts  into  her  cheeks,  and  her  hat  slides  down 
the  cascade  of  golden  hair  upon  her  shoulders,  and 
her  breath  begins  to  fail,  when  she  casts  the  sport 
aside,  conceding  her  strength  expended.  "  O  my !  I 
can't  any  longer ! "  and  calls  the  Poet  whom  already 
she  has  indicated  to  the  presence  beyond  the  sun-blinds, 
and  clasps  his  one  hand  in  both  her  hot  ones,  and  says: 
"  Now  you  shall  see  mamma ! "  and  trips  a  naiad 
dancing  measure  in  front  of  him,  up  the  steps  of  the 
terrace,  and  through  the  double  glass  doors  of  a  veranda 
conservatory,  and  so  into  the  softly  regulated  light  of 
the  room  where  the  presence  sits,  a  room  diffusing  the 
characteristic  odor  of  cool  cretonnes,  sweetened  with 
Parma  violets. 

The  spacious  garden  window  has  made  no  boastful 
promise  of  its  size,  for  though  divisible  by  folding  doors 
the  room  runs  the  full  depth  of  the  house,  and  a  second 
window  at  its  farther  end,  no  smaller,  silhouetting  the 
large  fronds  of  a  Kentia  palm  and  the  uplifted  lid  of 
a  grand  pianoforte,  gives  out  upon  the  square,  where 
the  Poet  catches  a  passing  glimpse  of  vivid  distant  sun- 
shades before  Bella's  fervent  fingers  draw  him  to  where 
her  mother  sits.  There  she  relinquishes  the  Poet's  hand 
and  flings  herself  upon  her  knees,  throwing  both  arms 
possessively  about  her  mother's  waist  and  lays  the 
rapidest  of  kisses  on  her  mother's  cheek,  as  if  to  let 
the  Poet  see  what  kind  of  being  this  is  she  loves  and 
worships ;  and  buries  her  face  for  a  moment  in  the  soft- 
ness of  her  mother's  bosom,  rocking  their  combined 


134  BELLA 

affections  to  and  fro.  Then :  "  This — "  she  says  to  Mrs. 
Dysart,  withdrawing  her  countenance  from  its  smoth- 
ered resting  place,  "  this  is — "  and  stops  at  that  as  on 
a  precipice,  with  the  queerest  little  look  of  perplexity, 
turning  twice  from  one  to  the  other  a  bitten  and  em- 
barrassed underlip.  "  O  my !  I  don't  know  who  it  is 
exactly.  I  call  him  Roo.  You  don't  mind,  do  you?" 
she  asks  the  Poet  pleadingly — "before  mamma?"  add- 
ing, with  the  prettiest  tune  of  laughter  over  her  predica- 
ment, "O  my!  I  didn't  know  what  to  call  you  just 
at  first.  We  never  settled  what  it  was  to  be,  did  we? 
And  this — "  she  says,  indicating  the  pronoun  by  a  two- 
fold kiss  of  the  clearest,  "  is  mamma !  " 


XX 

ALREADY  the  eyes  of  the  Poet  and  Mrs.  Dysart 
have  made  acquaintance  over  Bella's  shoulder,  smil- 
ing mutual  recognition  of  the  girl's  dear  inconsequence. 
Mrs.  Dysart's  eyebrows,  whimsically  elevated,  confess 
the  lenity  that  loves  too  well  to  judge,  but  there  is  a 
friendly  keenness  in  her  glance  that  seems  to  seek  the 
Poet's  judgment,  pleading  it  may  confirm  her  own  in- 
dulgence. The  hand  she  proffers  over  Bella's  shoulder 
is  very  white  and  very  slender,  albeit  the  fingers  that 
the  Poet  holds  in  his  a  moment  are  nothing  fragile,  but 
softly  and  taperingly  fleshed.  In  their  motion  they  agi- 
tate a  faint  warm  fragrance — eau  de  Cologne,  or  one  or 
other  of  those  tenuous  scents  in  which  the  Sex  secretes 
and  insinuates  itself — the  slightest  waft,  to  the  accom- 
panying music  of  a  bunch  of  golden  mascots  that  hang 
from  her  wrist.  Also,  the  fingers  extended  to  the  Poet's 
touch  are  ringed.  Turquoise  and  emerald  and  blood- 
red  ruby  flash  upon  them  with  a  vivacity  that  would 
be  dangerous  to  flesh  less  fair,  or  a  hand  less  shapely. 
Later,  he  is  to  associate  these  golden  hoops  and  colored 
stones  with  an  action  that  their  owner  makes  familiar; 
the  pensive  twisting  of  them  on  her  fingers  when  her 
eyes  seek  that  distant  solitude  of  vision  enhancive  of 
their  depth  and  beauty. 

For  deep  and  beautiful  they  are.  The  oriental 
fervor  of  Bella's  lips  has  not  led  truthfulness  in 
this  respect  too  far  astray.  Of  a  shade  that 
eludes  description,  for  which  no  term  exists,  be- 

135 


136  BELLA 

tween  gray-blue  and  hazel,  reticulated  with  violet,  the 
smile  that  issues  from  them  seems  kindled  with  the 
clearness  of  light.  Deeper  eyes  they  are  than  Bella's, 
and  more  darkly  lashed;  the  fringe  that  marks  the 
movement  of  their  lids  is  almost  sable,  and  of  such 
density  that  the  merest  drooping  of  them  serves  to 
screen  her  glance  from  observation.  The  light,  per- 
haps, diffused  and  softened  through  the  lowered  blinds, 
is  not  too  strict  a  censor  of  complexions ;  more  flatterer 
than  scrutineer,  but  it  falls  upon  Mrs.  Dysart's  cheek 
with  such  a  charity  as  to  surprise  the  Poet.  That  this 
can  be  the  mother  of  Bella  makes  him  wonder.  Sister 
he  might  have  believed,  for  the  resemblance  between 
them  protests  relationship.  Their  features  are  of  a 
mold;  their  profiles  follow  a  pattern;  in  silhouette  they 
might  be  one.  It  is  difficult  to  distinguish  anything  of  the 
father's  influence  in  the  girl's  face.  The  smile  of  greet- 
ing on  Mrs.  Dysart's  face  is  the  smile  made  known  to 
him  by  Bella,  albeit  more  disciplined  in  the  service  and 
requisitions  of  society.  The  lips  themselves  are  curi- 
ously similar;  save  only  for  the  difference  in  depth  and 
lash,  their  eyes  are  animated  by  looks  so  much  alike  as 
to  impress  almost  comically  the  watcher  of  both,  when 
he  sees  the  daughter's  glance  conform  by  instinct  to  the 
rulings  of  the  maternal  eye,  like  an  apt  recruit  recipro- 
cating the  motions  of  a  drill  sergeant.  Now  and  again, 
when  Bella's  instinct  for  the  look  appropriate  fails  her, 
by  a  quick  reference  to  her  mother's  face  she  regulates 
her  countenance  as  surely  and  as  swiftly  as  her  voice 
would  take  the  pitch  from  a  note  given.  The  years,  of 
course,  that  have  done  so  much  to  shape  the  corre- 
spondences of  these  two  faces,  have  also  wrought  in 
them  the  traits  of  difference.  Behind  the  external  sim- 
plicity and  singleness  of  Mrs.  Dysart's  countenance, 
there  is  that  deeper  and  more  complex  knowledge  born 


BELLA  137 

of  experience  and  the  world.  Maternity,  too,  shows  in 
her  face,  for  none  but  the  most  worthless  of  women 
can  be  a  mother  for  nothing.  Over  her  lips  at  times 
there  creeps  the  ineffable  look  of  pain  that  sits  on  them 
and  lends  the  look  of  soul  to  beauty,  that  expression 
of  gentle  suffering  which  is  so  effective  an  alloy  in  love- 
liness, and  may  even  be  simulated  by  those  women  who 
know  better  how  to  steal  advantage  from  sorrow  than 
to  suffer  it. 

And  there  are  external  differences,  too,  between 
Mrs.  Dysart  and  her  daughter.  Bella's  hair  is  gold- 
en— of  that  aureate  hue  which  might  give  rise  to 
base  surmises,  coiled  on  a  woman's  head.  Mrs.  Dysart's 
hair  is  of  deep  auburn,  or  rather  that  shade  of  bur- 
nished brown  that  shows  its  copper  only  in  the  sun, 
and  throws  a  pale  brow  into  luminous  relief.  Mrs. 
Dysart  is  scarcely  taller  than  her  daughter  may  before 
long  aspire  to  be,  though  her  form  seems  slenderer,  and 
the  woman's  garments  magnify  height.  But  the  points 
of  physical  divergence  are  wonderfully  slight.  It  is  in 
the  informing  spirit  that  most  of  the  difference  lies. 
Mrs.  Dysart  sits  as  Bella  could  not  sit ;  her  body,  steeped 
in  the  soft  cushions  of  her  chair,  derives  a  graceful 
advantage  from  the  posture  of  repose.  The  play  of 
her  brows  and  lashes  is  leisurely,  the  motion  of  her 
head  and  hands  slightly,  though  not  superciliously, 
languid.  The  white  lids  of  her  eyes,  thickly  embroid- 
ered with  their  black  lashes,  could  manifest  disdain 
beyond  the  expression  of  Bella's  franker  lids.  Over 
Bella's  face  the  stream  of  fancy  passes  with  a  swift  and 
busy  current;  behind  Mrs.  Dysart's  eyes  the  tide  of 
thought  flows  deeper  and  less  ruffled  in  its  channel;  her 
countenance  ripples  with  none  of  those  dancing  wave- 
lets of  expression  that  chase  each  other  so  quickly 

across  Bella's  face.     She  figures  womanhood  as  Bella 
10 


138  BELLA 

images  the  child.  The  sight  of  her  corrects,  though 
without  violence,  the  Poet's  expectations.  The  unaf- 
fected shaping  of  her  lips  in  speech,  and  the  sound  of 
her  voice,  put  to  flight  the  idea  of  epigrammatist,  for 
all  she  sits,  as  Bella  has  depicted,  amid  the  overflow 
of  books  and  magazines,  with  volumes  intimately  tucked 
beside  her  and  embedded  in  the  cushions  of  her  chair, 
and  journals  sliding  from  her  knee  to  the  carpet,  ex- 
truding fashion-plates  and  colored  toilettes.  To  these, 
a  little  later  she  makes  laughing  allusion,  bidding  Bella 
remove  their  offending  fashion-plates  from  the  Poet's 
eye — "  The  Woman's  Book  of  Martyrs,"  as  she  calls 
them. 

But  that  is  when  the  Poet  is  seated  on  the  chair 
that  Bella  has  been  whispered  to  provide  for  him,  and 
Bella  has  relieved  him  proudly  of  his  hat  and  gloves,  in 
doing  which  she  cannot  resist  the  temptation  first  of  all 
to  display  the  former  admiringly  to  her  mother's  notice, 
saying :  "  Look,  mamma !  Isn't  it  a  beauty !  " 

Mrs.  Dysart,  with  a  glance  at  the  Poet,  shapes  lips 
of  hushful  remonstrance,  and  tells  her  daughter :  "  Those, 
Bella,  are  things  we  think!" 

"  Yes,  and  so  do  I,"  says  Bella  with  fervid  assent. 
"  I've  been  thinking  so  all  the  morning.  I  did  wish 
you  could  have  seen  it.  It  looked  lovely  coming  out  of 
church." 

With  such  a  unifying  element  as  Bella  in  their  midst 
they  slide  into  conversation  with  the  ease  for  an  intimacy 
renewed  rather  than  an  acquaintance  begun. 

"  Indeed,  you  are  no  stranger  to  me,"  Mrs.  Dysart 
informs  the  Poet.  "  I  seem  to  know  you  so  well 
already,  part  through  your  verse,  which  I  have  often 
read,  and  then  through  Bella." 

Her  voice  has  the  richness  that  Bella's  may  some 
day  acquire,  although  its  tones  are  neither  deep 


BELLA  139 

nor  ringing.  Their  quality  lies  more  in  a  mellow 
warmth  suffusing  speech  like  mild  sunlight,  and  giv- 
ing a  clear  serenity  to  her  words.  It  is  a  rhythmic 
voice  with  music  in  it,  that  lifts  and  falls  be- 
tween the  points  of  such  a  wide  inflection  as  to  im- 
part to  her  spoken  words  the  character  almost  of 
melody,  very  fascinating  and  agreeable  to  the  ear,  and 
a  golden  vehicle — as  the  Poet  thinks — for  the  chariot- 
ing of  fame.  When  Mrs.  Dysart  speaks,  the  inflected 
outline  of  her  voice  is  reinforced  with  a  delicate  modu- 
lation of  the  brow,  that  renders  the  intention  of  each 
stress  and  accent  visible,  and  illustrates,  and  at  the  same 
time  wonderfully  softens,  speech. 

"  Bella  has  told  me  so  much  about  you.     She  must 
be  a  terrible  nuisance,  Mr.  Brandor ! " 

Bella  cries :  "  O  mamma !  "  and,  "  Am  I,  Roo?  " 
And  the  Poet  interposes  a  hearty  "  Not  at  all." 
"  Still,"  Mrs.  Dysart  continues,  "  it  would  have 
been  dreadfully  dull  without  you  for  us."  Her  speech 
expands  from  a  grateful  smile.  "  You  can't  think  what 
pleasant  company  you  have  been  to  me  after  my  stupid 
illness.  Do  you  know,  I  have  read  twice  through  your 
'  Mnemosyne's  Daughters '  since  Bella  met  you,  and  at 
times  I  felt  sure  I  could  catch  the  very  tones  of  your 
voice.  The  verses  might  have  been  your  lips.  I  seemed 
to  understand  them  infinitely  better  by  what  I  know  of 
you  through  Bella.  I  have  been  wanting  so  much  to  see 
you  for  myself  and  share  something  of  Bella's  privilege 
— Oh,  yes!  your  mamma  has  been  jealous  of  you,  Bella 
— and  to  thank  you  for  all  your  poetry  and  kindness, 
and  those  lovely  flowers."  Her  eyes,  led  by  the  allusion, 
go  forth  on  a  butterfly  excursion  from  bowl  to  bowl. 
"  Violets  are  my  passion.  Ever  since  I  was  a  child  I 
have  loved  the  look  and  scent  of  them.  I  could  die, 
I  think,  more  easily  in  their  fragrance." 


140  BELLA 

Bella  turns  apprehensive  lips  at  this  ominous  men- 
tion of  death. 

"  But  you  are  not  going  to  die,  mamma !  Not  for 
ever  so  long.  O  my!  Dr.  Hayhew  says  so — and  you 
know  you  promised  me  you  wouldn't." 

Mrs.  Dysart  laughs  the  gravity  from  Bella's  face, 
with  a  reflected  look  of  amusement  from  that  to  the 
Poet. 

"  O  no,  not  yet,  I  hope ! "  she  says.  "  You  funny 
girl !  There  are  so  many  lovely  things  to  live  for — 
poetry  and  friendship,  and  the  sweetest  hypocrisy. 
When  mamma  talks  of  dying,  it  is  a  sign  she  feels 
much  better.  Mr.  Brandor  will  tell  you  that  all  his 
saddest  poetry  is  composed  as  a  luxury  for  happiness. 
Only  happy  people  know  how  to  be  really  sad.  Did 
not  a  little  girl  come  recently  to  her  mamma  and  tell 
her :  *  O,  mamma !  I  feel  so  sorrowful ! '  and  when 
her  mamma  asked :  '  Why  ? '  was  not  her  answer :  '  I 
don't  know.  But  I  think  partly  because  it's  been  such 
a  lovely  day,  and  I've  enjoyed  myself  so  much '?  " 

Bella's  face  lights  up  at  the  allusion,  and  her  lips 
sing  joyously :  "  That  was  me.  O  my !  Yes,  I  remem- 
ber. I  was  frightfully  sad  that  evening." 

"  Ah,  Bella !  "  her  mother  tells  her.  "  It  is  beautiful, 
playing  at  being  sad  when  one  is  young.  When  one  is 
older,  one  has  to  play  at  being  happy.  That  is  ever  so 
much  harder." 

"  There ! "  cries  Bella  to  the  Poet,  with  radiant 
pride.  "  O  my !  What  did  I  tell  you !  Doesn't  mamma 
say  some  funny  things  ?  I  love  them.  Don't  you  ?  " 

Mrs.  Dysart  and  the  Poet  exchange  laughter. 

"  Some  very  true  things,  Bella !  "  her  mother  assures 
her.  "  But  Truth  deceives  us  all  when  we  are  children. 
She  begins  by  being  ever  so  kind,  like  the  new  teacher, 
and  it's  only  when  we  grow  older  and  she  sets  us  harder 


BELLA  141 

tasks  that  we  find  how  horrid  she  is.  Perhaps,  when 
'we  grow  very,  very  old,  we  may  come  to  like  her 
better  again,  and  think  her  not  so  hateful  after  all." 
She  breaks  off  with  a  laugh.  "  But,  good  gracious ! 
Don't  let  us  talk  about  such  disagreeable  things.  We 
are  quite  forgetting  our  manners,  Bella.  Truth  is  never 
mentioned  in  company.  So  you  have  been  to  church 
this  morning." 

Bella  cries :  "  O  mamma !  "  in  a  voice  of  celestial 
rapture,  like  a  choir  of  angels  liberated  and  ascending, 
as  though  the  subject  opened  gates  in  Heaven.  "  It 
was  lovely.  We  did  wish  you  had  been  with  us.  Didn't 
we,  Roo?  Next  time  you  must  come,  too,  and  we  will 
all  sit  together.  You  shall  sit  between  us  both.  No, 
I'll  sit  between  you  both.  No,  you  shall  sit  between 
us  both.  O  my!  I  don't  mind  a  bit.  Just  however 
you  like." 

"  I  am  sure  it  would  be  more  interesting  than  these 
stupid  magazines.  No  sermon  could  be  quite  so  dull." 

"  Our  sermon  wasn't  dull.  It  was  lovely.  Wasn't  it, 
Roo?  I  had  hold  of  Roo's  hand  all  the  time.  The 
clergyman  was  beautiful.  He  coughed  so  sadly,  and 
had  the  sweetest  tremble  in  his  voice.  And  such  a 
lovely  what-do-you-call-it  over  his  shoulders." 

"And  what  was  the  text?" 

"  O  my !  "  Bella's  lips  shaped  and  unshaped  them- 
selves over  the  formation  of  a  reply,  with  more  will- 
ingness than  wisdom,  finally  subsiding  in  despair. 
"  I've  forgotten  that." 

"  Perhaps  Mr.  Brandor  can  help  you  ?  " 

The  Poet  shook  a  guilty  head.  "I  was  relying  on 
Bella.  I  believe  it  came  out  of  the  Collect." 

"  Then  I  am  as  wise  as  you  both — for  all  I  have 
been  turning  the  pages  of  magazines  till  my  wrist  aches, 
to  try  and  find  something  I  could  read.  I  think  I  need 


142  BELLA 

not  go  to  church  next  Sunday,  after  all.  Tell  me  about 
the  dresses.  Those  are  much  more  important.  No- 
body knows  whether  the  sermon  improves  us  or  not, 
but  everybody  can  tell  when  a  hat  does  not  suit  us. 
Were  there  any  very  pretty  frocks,  Mr.  Brandor?" 

"  I  did  not  see  any." 

"  Then  I  fear  there  must  have  been.  It  is  woman's 
complaint  that  man  never  sees  her  at  her  best." 

Bella  broke  in :  "  O,  mamma !  There  were  lots  and 
lots — ever  such  lots  of  the  loveliest  frocks.  Roo  said  he 
liked  mine,  too — didn't  you,  Roo?  Say  you  did,  so 
mamma  can  hear  you." 

"  Indeed  I  did." 

Bella  throws  up  to  her  mother  a  triumphant 
"  There ! "  In  this  new  domain  of  recollection  her 
memory  proves  all-sufficing.  There  is  scarcely  a  frock 
she  has  not  noted,  or  a  precise  shade  or  hue  she  lacks 
the  faculty  to  describe.  To  the  Poet,  who  preserves 
the  memory  of  all  these  worshipers  as  a  mass,  a  pha- 
lanx of  identities  showing  an  almost  solid  frontage  to 
the  assaulting  eye,  it  is  an  astonishment  to  learn  with 
what  prowess  Bella  has  pierced  their  ranks  and  re- 
duced a  corporate  crowd  to  units.  Hats,  frocks,  gloves, 
shoes  and  stockings;  looks,  smiles,  and  even  eyebrows 
glimpsed  momentarily  over  pew-ledges,  are  stored  in- 
delibly in  the  crowded  repository  of  the  girl's  mind. 
She  sits  by  her  mother's  side,  with  her  two  arms  em- 
bracing her  mother's  knee,  and  her  face  sometimes  laid 
against  it,  sometimes  uplifted  as  if  to  drink  of  the 
chalice  of  her  mother's  laughter,  or  take  visible  joy  in 
her  mother's  countenance.  From  her  rapturous  gaze 
on  this  she  turns  it,  filled  with  love  and  pride,  toward 
the  Poet,  in  a  glance  that  cries  as  plain  as  speech: 
"  Isn't  she  a  darling !  I  love  her.  I  think  she's  sweet." 
And  from  contemplation  of  the  Poet  in  turn  she  flashes 


BELLA  143 

looks  of  invitation  to  the  face  above  her,  seeming  to 
ask  its  acquiescence  in  her  own  admiring  affection: 
"  Say  you  like  him,  too,  mamma !  O  my !  I'm  sure  you 
must.  He's  lovely." 

Nor  can  this  allegiant  quality  be  restrained  to  looks 
alone.  Prompted  by  a  friendlier  outburst  of  laughter, 
in  whose  circle  they  are  drawn  momentarily  close  to  one 
another,  it  escapes  Bella's  custody  and  finds  outlet  in 
speech  through  the  startling  inquiry :  "  O  my !  How  do 
you  like  mamma?  Is  she  just  what  you'd  expected?" 
which  Mrs.  Dysart  will  not  let  the  Poet  answer,  re- 
proving her  daughter :  "  Fie,  Bella !  What  a  dreadful 
question  to  ask.  Do  you  want  Mr.  Brandor  to  tell  a 
story  when  he  is  only  just  back  from  church?  Of 
course,  he  has  not  had  time  to  make  up  his  mind  yet 
— and  the  question  would  be  more  dreadful  than  ever 
if  he  had.  That  is  why  wise  people  never  form  an 
opinion,  lest  foolish  people  should  ask  them  for  it.  Be- 
sides, '  liking '  is  only  for  little  girls,  who  ought  to  like 
everything  and  everybody,  not  for  grown-up  people, 
who  are  expected  to  like  nothing." 

"  Dr.  Hayhew  likes  you,"  Bella  declared,  "  and  he's 
grown  up.  Ever  so  much  more  grown  up  than  Roo." 

"  But  Dr.  Hayhew's  only  a  doctor,"  Mrs.  Dysart 
reminded  the  girl.  "  One  must  not  take  doctors  too 
seriously.  They  will  all  tell  you  we  don't." 

"  He  brings  mamma  a  rose  every  morning,"  Bella 
declared,  directing  her  information  to  the  Poet,  in  de- 
spair of  overcoming  this  other  adversary  in  argument. 
"  Ever  such  a  lovely  one — on  purpose  for  her.  Look ! 
There  it  is.  You  can  tell  he's  been  this  morning."  She 
pointed  at  the  delicate  William  Allan  Richardson  with 
a  finger  of  triumph. 

"  You  silly  girl !  "  Mrs.  Dysart  apostrophized  her, 
drawing  back  the  golden  head  and  shedding  her  amuse- 


144  BELLA 

ment  over  Bella's  brow.  "  Dr.  Hayhew  has  lots  of  roses 
like  that  in  his  brougham,  and  leaves  one  with  every 
lady  he  visits.  You  may  always  know  a  lady's  doctor 
by  his  button-hole.  It  is  part  of  the  treatment,  Bella. 
\But  for  these  little  attentions  many  women  would  never 
take  the  trouble  to  be  ill  at  all." 

Bella  demanded :  "  What  did  he  tell  you  this  morn- 
ing, mamma  ?  " 

"  He  said  he  was  afraid  I  was  nearly  quite  well 
again,  Bella.  I'm  afraid  I  am,  too.  It  makes  one  feel 
very  ordinary,  Mr.  Brandor,  to  have  one's  health  once 
more;  it  is  like  descending  from  poetry  to  prose.  One 
is  not  interesting  even  to  oneself  when  one  ceases  to 
be  an  invalid.  Don't  you  think  so?" 

"  I  ?  I  fear  I'm  only  a  man,"  the  Poet  confessed. 
"  Sickness  does  not  offer  us  such  a  variety  of  attractive 
maladies  and  toilets.  One  cannot  be  ill  to  advantage 
in  a  dressing-gown." 

"O  my!"  Bella  exclaimed  with  fervor.  "You 
ought  to  see  mamma's  dressing-gown.  It  is  a  darling." 
Mrs.  Dysart  slipped  quiet  suppressive  fingers  over  the 
girl's  mouth. 

"  Now  you  are  frightening  Mr.  Brandor,"  she  said, 
with  a  flicker  of  her  lashes.  "  If  you  talk  like  that, 
Bella,  he  will  be  looking  at  his  watch."  She  tendered  the 
frank  full  smile  for  an  open  topic.  "  This  is  your  first 
visit  to  Spathorpe  ?  " 
"  My  very  first." 

"And  you  find  Spathorpe  interesting?" 
"With  only  a  little  encouragement  I  could  grow 
very  fond  of  it." 

"  I  dare  not  tell  you  how  many  years  it  is  since  I 
was  first  here.  For  charity's  sake  we  will  call  it  '  once 
upon  a  time.' " 


BELLA  145 

"  O  my !  I  love  '  once  upon  a  time/  "  says  Bella. 
"Don't  you?" 

"  But  then,  I  was  only  a  little  girl.  Indeed,  I  must 
have  been,  for  I  cannot  remember  in  the  least  what  I 
wore.  That  may  be  merciful." 

"  It  was  because  of  Uncle  Dody  we  came  to  Spa- 
thorpe  this  time,  wasn't  it  ? "  Bella  interpolates.  "  O 
my!  He  was  coming,  too,  and  then  he  went  away  to 
America  instead,  and  we  don't  know  when  he's  coming 
back,  do  we?  Perhaps  not  for  ever  such  a  long  time." 

Mrs.  Dysart  stroked  the  golden  hair  for  a  brief 
space  with  eyes  introspectively  fringed,  as  if  her  thought 
were  suddenly  directed  inward. 

"  You  funny  girl ! "  she  said,  smiling  in  amusement 
on  the  upturned  face.  "  Whatever  has  Uncle  Dody  to 
do  with  our  coming  here  ?  " 

Bella  exclaims  in  surprise :  "  I  thought  he  had. 
Hadn't  he  ?  O  my !  Why  did  we  come  ?  " 

Mrs.  Dysart  answers :  "  That's  what  I  asked  myself 
too,  when  the  doctor  was  sent  for.  Perhaps  on  purpose 
to  make  Mr.  Brandor's  acquaintance,  Bella!  Who 
knows  ?  " 

Their  talk  flows  in  a  simple  course  that  rises  seldom 
above  the  level  of  Bella's  comprehension.  Where,  oc- 
casionally, the  Poet  and  Mrs.  Dysart  touch  on  topics 
beyond  her,  Bella  listens  with  the  reverence  for  an 
'oracle,  sobering  her  face  to  suitable  attention,  and  silent 
as  a  mouse  (for  there  is  something  very  wonderful  to 
her  in  things  not  understood,  which  seem  to  confirm 
the  superiorities  of  those  who  deal  in  them),  but  she 
is  not  without  skill  to  interpose  the  timely,  though 
never  interruptive,  word,  that  turns  the  wandering  tide 
of  talk  into  more  congenial  channels.  In  this  respect 
her  manners  are  a  model.  Such  proverbs  as  deal  with 


146  BELLA 

small  children's  shoulds  and  shouldn'ts,  the  auricular 
capacity  of  pitchers,  and  all  those  lines  of  conduct  ruled 
with  awful  straightness  and  severity  over  the  daily  page 
of  youth,  were  never  made  for  Bella.  Her  ebullient 
little  spirit,  so  naturally  eager  and  impetuous,  is  won- 
derfully repressible.  The  merest  touch  of  her  mother's 
hand  upon  the  golden  head  with  which,  as  she  talks, 
she  toys,  suffices  to  keep  the  impulsive  word  unspoken. 
And  this  with  no  sign  of  management  or  restraint,  for 
the  girl  has  that  natural  instinct  which  makes  friends 
with  discipline  and  melts  authority  into  love. 

To  the  Poet  this  picture  of  the  mother  and  her 
daughter  is  a  fascinating  one,  teaching  him  more  of 
both  than  he  could  have  learned  from  Bella's  lips  alone, 
and  proving  them  more  to  each  other  than  he  had  per- 
haps imagined.  Affections  unpractised  are  apt  to  be- 
tray themselves  in  public  to  the  wary  watcher.  Before 
now  the  Poet — like  most  of  us — has  been  witness  of 
politic  embraces;  those  artificial  fondlings,  like  the  kiss 
of  flint  and  steel,  that  strive  to  make  visible  the  spark 
of  affection  by  force — an  uncertain  and  incendiary  flash 
when  kindled.  But  this  practised  companionship  of 
Bella  and  her  mother  reveals  no  guile;  its  quality  is 
spontaneous. 

And  since  there  exists  always  the  element  of  some- 
thing sacred  in  the  love  between  maternity  and  that  it 
bore,  the  Poet  sees  Mrs.  Dysart  in  a  softer  and  diviner 
light  by  reason  of  these  quiet  caresses.  The  smiles  she 
shows  to  him  are  mellowed  by  the  deeper  feeling  dis- 
cerned in  her;  something  of  the  halo  of  the  holy  family 
irradiates  this  gracious  woman  and  her  child,  and  gives 
to  their  commingled  beauty  a  significance  of  sanctity. 
Through  Mrs.  Dysart  Bella  is  commended  to  him  in 
a  dearer  degree;  through  Bella,  Mrs.  Dysart  is  ineffably 
translated,  revealed  by  those  soft  instances  for  which 


BELLA  147 

alone  her  daughter  furnishes  occasion.  To  sit  beside 
'  this  placid  communion  of  the  affections  confers  upon 
the  Poet  something  of  the  soothing  spirit  of  the  noise- 
less running  of  a  brook,  whose  waters,  for  all  they 
flow,  interpret  tranquillity  more  than  motion. 


XXI 

THE  soft  ruffle  of  the  luncheon  gong,  that  creeps 
discreetly  in  upon  their  conversation,  brings  the 
Poet  to  his  feet  with  apologies  for  his  disregard  of 
time,  but  Mrs.  Dysart  begs  him :  "  Surely,  Mr.  Brandor, 
you  will  not  think  of  deserting  us  before  lunch.  It  is 
a  pleasure  on  which  we  have  been  counting,"  and  Bella 
clasps  her  mother's  knee  with  such  appeal,  saying :  "  Oh, 
mamma !  He  mustn't  go.  Don't  let  him  go.  He  won't, 
I'm  sure,  if  only  you  ask  him,"  and  adds  such  supplica- 
tion to  her  mother's  graciousness  that  the  Poet  has  no 
alternative  but  to  submit.  The  polite  excuses  he  makes 
on  the  score  of  his  own  lunch  already  prepared,  and 
Mrs.  Herring's  expectation  of  him,  are  met  immediately 
by  Bella,  who  runs  to  the  balconied  house  with  the 
speed  of  a  fawn  to  messenger  the  Poet's  absence,  and 
comes  back  radiant  with  service  and  success,  to  take  her 
place,  still  panting,  at  the  table  in  the  dining-room. 

Here,  drawn  closer  by  the  subtle  friendly  influences 
that  emanate  from  white  napery  and  spread  silver  and 
the  glittering  array  of  regulated  glass,  their  intimacy 
grows.  The  room,  lit  by  one  large  window,  and  softened 
by  embroidered  blinds,  which  the  creeping  sunlight 
already  kindles,  gives  out  upon  the  square,  whose  mid- 
day silence  is  broken  only  by  rare  footsteps  and  their 
own  voices,  or  the  laughter  at  intervals  that  comes  to 
them  cooled  and  clarified,  like  a  trickle  of  iced  water, 
from  some  adjacent  window.  Above  Mrs.  Dysart's 
head  a  convex  mirror  starts  from  the  wall,  as  if  it  were 

148 


BELLA  149 

a  silvery  bubble,  half-blown,  about  to  detach  itself  and 
float  upward.  It  reflects  the  sunlit  window  with  mag- 
nified brightness,  and  the  scarlet  geraniums  in  the  win- 
dow boxes,  and  the  heads  of  the  sitters  as  they  bend 
to  meat  or  turn  to  share  laughter,  and  the  white  surface 
of  the  luncheon  table  distorted  to  a  dome,  and  the  mov- 
ing muslin  of  the  serving-maid,  and  her  sly  uplifted  eyes 
when  she  takes  stock  of  the  Poet  by  reflection.  But 
they  feed  more  on  words  than  meats,  and  laughter  is 
their  wine.  True,  Bella  is  no  mean  plyer  of  the  imple- 
ments of  the  table,  though  as  the  girl  herself  explains, 
this  luncheon  constitutes  her  dinner,  which  she  is  al- 
lowed to  take  with  Rupert  and  Mrs.  Dysart  instead  of 
the  Yorkshire  pudding  and  roast  beef  with  Leonie. 
Bella  drinks  lemonade,  flavored  with  slices  of  the  fruit, 
and  sweetened  frothily  with  sugar,  and  chilled  with  a 
miniature  iceberg  that  bobs  delectably  against  her  nose 
in  drinking,  and  makes  the  fluid  so  cold  that  it  brings 
out  beads  upon  the  glass,  and  nips  her  breath  and  causes 
her  to  set  the  tumbler  down  in  haste  with  an  enraptured 
"  Ah !  "  each  time  she  drinks  of  it.  It  is  so  very  good, 
she  avers,  that  nothing  will  content  her  but  her  mother 
must  confirm  its  goodness  from  her  tumbler,  which 
Mrs.  Dysart  does,  to  the  extent  of  one  indulgent  sip 
that  shows  her  lips  and  lowered  lashes  to  advantage, 
saying :  "  O  Bella !  This  is  perfect  piggy-wiggy.  You 
are  going  to  ruin  Mr.  Brandor's  opinion  of  us." 

Bella  protests :  "  It  isn't  piggy-wiggy  a  bit.  And  Roo 
doesn't  mind.  I  gave  him  half  a  chocolate  yesterday, 
after  I'd  bitten  it,  for  it  was  such  a  darling  color  inside, 
and  the  loveliest  flavor.  Wasn't  it,  Roo?  Besides," 
says  Bella,  prosecuting  the  pros  and  cons  of  the  subject 
with  her  industrious  wont,  "  you  always  let  me  take  a 
teeny  sip  of  your  whipped  sherry  in  the  morning.  And 
that's  not  piggy-wiggy,  is  it?  At  least,  I  don't  care  if 


150  BELLA 

it  is.    I  love  it.    And  it  shows  you  love  me,  doesn't  it? 
O  my !  " 

If  the  lunch  contributes  not  much  to  the  store  of 
their  actual  knowledge  of  each  other,  at  least  it  aug- 
ments that  sympathetic  wisdom  which  assimilates  char- 
acter by  essence,  without  regard  to  its  relation  to  an 
outer  world,  or  the  outer  world's  reaction  on  it.  With 
Bella's  tongue  ringing  such  Arcadian  music  across  the 
table,  the  spirit  of  candor — if  not  its  substance — is 
loosed  and  prevails;  and  a  belt  of  conceded  friendship 
binds  all  three.  Indeed,  the  amicable  qualities  cannot 
secrete  themselves  for  long  where  Bella  is.  Her  liberal 
and  friendly  nature  seems  to  call  all  other  natures  to 
take  hands  with  her  and  join  the  dancing  ring  of  human 
happiness.  Reserve,  in  such  a  circle,  is  quickly  bereft 
of  all  that  distinguishes  it,  like  the  curate  in  the  kissing- 
ring,  whose  legs  perforce  must  subscribe  to  the  com- 
mon measure  however  clear  of  it  he  hold  his  theology. 
Bella  is  the  quickening  force  that  animates  the  chain 
of  current  sympathies,  and  sings  them  on  and  sets  the 
pace.  So,  though  the  Poet's  bearing  to  Mrs.  Dysart 
and  Mrs.  Dysart's  disposition  to  the  Poet,  in  their  direct 
addresses  to  each  other,  infer  the  ceremony  for  new 
acquaintance,  through  Bella  they  short-circuit  friend- 
ship. She  is  the  ostensible  conduit  through  which  their 
laughter  passes.  In  her  their  sympathies  meet  and  min- 
gle as  if  her  little  sociable  heart  were  a  parlor,  and 
they,  guests.  Her  presence  serves  to  keep  the  conver- 
sation swift  and  sweet  and  friendly  in  its  flow.  No 
long  words  or  convenances  clog  it.  It  runs  like  a  brook, 
in  a  channel  of  simplicity,  and  its  dimpled  current  is 
never  so  deep  (or  rarely)  or  so  disturbed  as  to  obscure 
the  friendly  nature  of  its  bed.  Once  or  twice  the  Poet 
catches  the  golden  gleam  in  Mrs.  Dysart's  laughter  for 
which  Bella  has  prepared  him,  and  agrees  in  heart  with 


BELLA  151 

Bella's  dictum  that  the  flaw  becomes  her,  and  would 
(if  he  had  the  willing  of  it)  the  gilded  trophy  should 
show  oftener,  for  it  marks  the  golden  limit  of  Mrs. 
Dysart's  smile,  whose  generosity  is  as  great  as  Bella's, 
and  whose  quality  mellower. 

When  Bella  touches  on  the  topic  of  ages,  cracking 
the  years  in  friendly  calculation  as  if  they  were  mere 
dessert  nuts,  Mrs.  Dysart  admonishes  her  daughter: 
"  Teeth  and  ages,  Bella,  should  never  be  discussed  in 
company.  For  if  you  mention  teeth,  you  stop  half  the 
smiles  at  table.  And  a  woman  is  not  more  scared  of  a 
mouse  than  of  her  own  age."  But  with  a  frankness 
which  astonishes  the  Poet  she  admits  to  the  age  of 
thirty-two.  He  admires  her  candor,  and  such  is  the 
corruption  of  our  human  nature,  that  it  sets  him 
straightway  wondering  if  she  be  no  older  than  she 
pleads.  Not  that  she  looks  her  age,  for  the  Poet  but 
for  Bella,  would  have  judged  her  younger.  And  as 
Mrs.  Dysart  says :  "  One's  daughters  age  one  terribly, 
Mr.  Brandor.  The  tragedy  of  married  life  is  that  a 
mother  forfeits  the  privilege  of  deception." 

He  subtracts  Bella's  years  from  thirty-two,  and 
concludes  that  Mrs.  Dysart  must  have  been  married  in 
her  teens.  The  thought  is  romantic.  The  veil  and 
orange  blossom  confer  somewhat  of  the  martyr's 
beauty  to  the  visage  of  the  youthful  bride,  that  steps 
from  the  school-room  to  maternity  like  the  figure  of 
Faith  betwixt  fanatic  fires  and  Heaven.  In  her  early 
beauty — when  her  face  thrilled  a  little  under  the  con- 
scious knowledge  of  it,  weighted  with  the  quality  like 
a  blossom  under  its  first  dews — Mrs.  Dysart  must  have 
been  a  form  to  worship.  And  yet  this  thought,  crossing 
the  Poet's  mind,  does  not  aim  to  detract  from  his  pres- 
ent admiration  of  her.  Some  women  have  their  beauty 
on  a  slender  and  uncertain  tenancy ;  others  by  lease ;  again 


152  BELLA 

there  are  those  who  seem  to  hold  their  loveliness  in 
fee  simple,  and  pay  no  rent  to  Time.  Of  these,  the  Poet 
deems  Mrs.  Dysart  to  be  one.  He  believes  her  beauty 
is  the  type  that  does  not  antiquate  or  fall  into  decay, 
but  keeps  pace  with  the  years,  changing  visibly  little, 
until  it  grow  venerable  like  them.  Some  forms  of  beauty 
too,  there  are,  that  make  no  receptacle  for  experience, 
cannot  contain  the  least  substantial  stuff  of  wisdom  or 
experience,  but  fall  at  once  to  pieces  like  worthless  furni- 
ture put  to  use.  Knowledge  only  dulls  them;  suffer- 
ing makes  them  fretful;  pleasure,  haggard.  But  Mrs. 
Dysart's  face  is  one  that  treasures  the  riches  of  ex- 
perience and  shows  them  advantageously  displayed  be- 
hind a  look  of  clear  candor  and  yet  reserve,  like  precious 
china  seen  through  the  panes  of  a  cabinet.  Bella's 
beauty,  the  Poet  thinks,  possesses  this  virtue,  too.  At 
her  mother's  age  he  fancies  he  can  see  her  not  dis- 
similar; her  youth  subdued,  but  not  expelled;  her  eager 
lips  modulated  to  an  indulgent  graciousness ;  her  eyes 
deepened  with  the  power  of  retrospect,  and  not,  as 
now,  the  shallower  mirrors  of  young  joys  and  present 
sorrows. 

The  conclusion  of  their  meal  is  marked  by  a  senti- 
mental change  in  Bella's  face,  who  grows  commiserative 
of  a  sudden  with  large  eyes  on  Mrs.  Dysart,  and  sighs : 
"  O  my !  "  and  "  Poor  mamma !  "  explaining  to  the  Poet : 
"  Now  mamma  must  go  and  rest.  The  doctor  says  so. 
Doesn't  it  seem  sad?  O  my!  I  wish  lunch  were  only 
just  beginning." 

But  Mrs.  Dysart  shows  less  obedience  than  her  own 
deep  eye  or  little  daughter  would  interpret  her  to  have. 
She  says :  "  Fiddle-de-dee,  Bella.  Patients  are  allowed 
to  disobey  the  doctor  when  they're  getting  better.  Mam- 
ma's not  going  to  lie  down  yet.  A  little  indiscretion  will 
do  her  all  the  good  in  the  world."  And  she  proposes 


BELLA 

fruit  and  coffee  in  the  garden — if  Mr.  Brandor 
so  kind  as  to  overlook  the  shortcomings  of  the 
— as  their  neighbors  do,  daily.  In  such  compa 
Poet  is  prepared  to  overlook  anything,  and  conceives  the 
sheltered  quadrangle  as  a  perfect  Hesperides.  So  Mrs. 
Dysart  throws  over  her  shoulders  a  filmy  stole,  that 
veils  her  upper  portions  like  a  cloud,  and  imparts  to 
her  a  transcendental  look,  as  if  her  beauty  might  almost 
vaporize  and  float;  and  plucks  a  sunshade  from  the 
stand  in  the  hall,  and  they  pass  into  the  garden,  all 
three 

Bella  shows  the  Poet  where  the  garden  chairs  are 
stored  in  the  summer-house,  and  helps  him  to  set  them 
out,  and  Leonie — who  bows  to  the  Poet  on  Bella's 
breezy  presentation  with  the  inscrutable  sly  modesty  of 
her  race,  slipping  a  decorous  "  M'sieu "  through  lips 
that  close  again  immediately  upon  the  word,  as  if  she 
feared  some  fraction  of  her  virtue  might  escape  with 
it — Leonie  brings  wraps  for  her  mistress,  and  a  wicker 
table,  and  they  take  fruit  and  sip  coffee  in  the  shade 
cast  by  the  south  wall,  and  fill  another  hour  with 
friendly  talk.  Floats  to  them  as  they  sit  the  faint 
sound  of  the  outer  world,  noises  that  lap  against  the 
walls  of  their  retirement  very  solacefully,  like  summer 
waves  that  soothe  a  boat's  prow,  for,  as  Mrs.  Dysart 
expresses  it,  "  there  is  nothing  so  restful  as  other  peo- 
ple's activity." 

Passing  voices,  and  external  laughter  are  wafted  to 
them  over  the  wall.  They  hear  the  footsteps  of  a  re- 
animate Spathorpe,  drawn  forth  anew  by  the  necessity 
to  show  itself  and  publish  its  humors.  Here  and  there 
in  the  high  windows  visible  above  them  industrious 
heads  are  to  be  seen  at  toilet ;  hair  is  smoothed  resolutely 
into  order;  feminine  hats  adjusted  before  the  glass, 
with  inconclusive  touches,  and  side-glances  at  the  street 
11 


-.154  BELLA 

for  signs  of  how  the  public  current  flows.  Shortly  they 
hear  faint  paroxysms  of  music  from  the  Parade;  bars 
that  burst  out  suddenly  from  the  blue  sky  overhead,  like 
colored  stars  from  a  rocket,  and  fade  into  nothing.  The 
sacred  concert  is  in  progress;  the  terraces  will  be 
crowded  with  an  ambiguous  throng,  irreducible  to  any 
exact  standard  of  fashion,  though  chiefly  of  the  class 
that  goes  to  look  for  it.  For  Sunday  music  has  not  yet 
won  its  franchise,  and  whatever  Conscience  may  be- 
lieve, Fashion  (which  is  after  all  the  supreme  thing 
in  such  matters)  has  not  yet  made  up  its  mind  whether 
to  follow  the  lead  of  the  nursemaid  and  soldier,  or 
decide  for  orthodoxy  and  selecter  pleasures.  That  por- 
tentous judge,  Time,  who  takes  as  long  to  bring  his 
causes  to  an  issue  as  the  Court  of  Chancery  and  whose 
rulings  are  as  capricious  as  the  Law,  has  since  pro- 
nounced upon  the  question,  but  at  this  period  of  our 
Poet's  history,  it  is  still  sub  judice.  There  is  said  to  be 
a  monster  petition  hatching  under  the  wings  of  the  non- 
conformist conscience,  alleged  twenty  feet  long  already, 
and  growing  with  signatories  at  the  rate  of  eighteen 
inches  a  day.  Rumor  speaks,  too,  of  contemplated  legal 
action  on  the  part  of  the  allied  religious  bodies,  and 
there  are  hints  of  the  exhumation  of  some  moldering 
act  to  enforce  public  worship  on  all  adults  and  baptized 
infants  over  the  age  of  five  years. 

Meanwhile,  there  are  many  who  will  visit  the  Parade 
merely  to  witness  and  take  a  lesson  from  the  wicked- 
ness of  it,  as  English  folk  go  to  the  gaming  table  at 
Monte  Carlo,  and  hazard  five  francs  to  be  assured  of 
the  iniquity  of  gambling.  Some  of  cruder  views,  who 
see  good  in  all  things,  go  drawn  by  purely  pious  resolu- 
tions, to  be  improved  by  sacred  music,  and  hear  "The 
Lost  Chord  "  blown  five  miles  to  sea  out  of  a  cornet. 
Others,  who  disapprove  of  pleasure  on  the  Lord's  Day, 


BELLA  155 

and  yet  think  it  sin  the  day  should  be  wasted,  will 
promenade  the  cliff  above  the  Parade  gardens,  where 
the  music  is  to  be  heard  without  sacrifice  of  principle 
or  collusion  of  pocket.  The  Esplanade  is  even  more 
thronged  than  was  the  case  this  morning;  but  the 
countenance  of  the  crowd  shows  a  notable  diminution 
of  hauteur.  These  blasts  of  sacred  music  from  below 
fire  the  latent  festive  spirit  in  humanity,  that  would 
break  boisterously  loose  but  for  the  day.  Not  Bibles 
hot  with  haste  from  Sunday  school  can  altogether  sub- 
due the  volatile  essence  of  their  owners  that  carry  them. 
Links  of  giggling  maidens  as  many  as  six  abreast  go 
waltzing  up  and  down  the  roadway,  that  were  less  than 
fifteen  minutes  since  in  caps  and  aprons,  perspiring  with 
the  zeal  of  hoisting  hot  joints  to  third-story  lodgers,  or 
rattling  pots  like  castanets  in  the  wash-up  pancheon 
below  stairs,  and  transported  hence,  some  of  them,  with 
such  expedition  that  they  have  hooked  no  more  of  their 
frock's  fasteners  than  will  serve  to  hold  it  on  their 
shoulders,  trusting,  for  the  rest,  to  the  blindness  of 
humanity — which  might  stand  them  in  good  stead  were 
these  defects  but  virtues.  There  is  a  disposition  to 
repartee,  and  cries  that  would  breed  and  multiply  freely 
in  the  congenial  atmosphere  of  Saturday  night,  go 
chevied  down  the  Esplanade.  All  the  iron  seats  are 
occupied  to  discomfort.  There  is  no  room  for  elbows 
to  spread  a  newspaper.  The  railings  are  possessed 
by  precocious  youth.  Artillerymen  from  the  barracks, 
with  white  gloves  stuffed  under  their  shoulder-straps, 
and  red-coated  volunteers  from  the  encampment  on  the 
Castle  Hill  lend  color  and  a  dash  of  recklessness  to 
the  crowd,  swaggering  martially  from  the  hip,  to  the 
ring  of  spur-music,  flicking  switches  and  rifling  all  these 
feminine  faces  of  their  modesty,  and  making  girls  as 
giddy  as  the  roundabouts.  Sailors  there  are  too,  rolling 


156  BELLA 

more  leisurely  in  their  capacious  breeches,  liberally 
tattooed  about  the  wrist  and  forearm,  and  displaying 
necks  as  bare  as  a  debutante.  And  frank  rustics  from 
the  field,  bringing  the  heaviness  of  the  soil  and  the  scent 
of  byre  and  cowshed  with  them  despite  their  Sunday 
clothes,  push  their  way  through  the  throng  with  the 
dropped  under  jaw  indicative  of  wonder;  finding  a  world 
of  novelty  in  their  fellow-men  that  will  be  retailed  to- 
night in  distant  barns  and  sultry  kitchens.  For  these 
the  realm  of  fashion  begins  with  walking-sticks  and 
hard  felt  hats,  on  which  basis  Spathorpe  on  Sunday 
afternoon  may  be  said  to  seethe  with  quality,  and  shows 
as  many  wonders  to  the  curious  watcher  as  cheese  under 
the  microscope. 

To  the  garden  occupants  at  Cromwell  Lodge  this  stir 
of  humanity  is  known  only  by  its  consequences  on  their 
own  peace.  All  the  distracting  blood  of  life  seems 
drawn  away  from  their  surroundings,  as  if  the  writhing 
excrescence  on  the  cliff  were  a  leech,  with  function  to 
suck  the  fever  out  of  Spathorpe's  veins.  The  garden 
floats  in  sunlight  deep  and  tranquil,  immersed  in  the 
blue  beauty  of  the  cloudless  sky.  Around  about  them 
such  half-drawn  window  blinds  as  they  can  see  seem 
to  flag  like  sleeping  eyelids.  The  voice  of  the  little 
fountain  adds  itself  to  the  conversation.  Somewhere, 
not  far  distant,  but  refined  by  the  hot  sunlight  like 
gold  in  a  crucible,  the  keys  of  a  piano  are  struck,  and 
the  brief  cool  notes  are  soaked  up  instantly  by  the 
silence,  as  if  they  were  drops  of  water  in  sand.  A  sense 
of  Elysian  peace  touches  everything,  even  their  laugh- 
ter. In  such  a  mood  and  setting,  people  dally,  each 
with  reluctance  to  break  the  spell  of  communion,  but 
Leonie  has  her  orders  and  lacks  the  least  compunction 
to  obey  them,  arriving  to  the  minute  of  Mrs.  Dysart's 
command  with  a  submissive  "  S'il  vous  plait,  madame!" 


BELLA  157 

as  if  she  studies  her  mistress'  word  more  closely  than 
'her  own  convenience — which  has  indeed  wished  Mrs. 
Dysart  at  a  number  of  different  places  for  this  hour 
past.  Mrs.  Dysart  is  not  altogether  indisposed  to  add 
a  further  term  to  the  maid's  probation,  but  she  sub- 
mits to  the  doctor  and  destiny  with  a  becoming  smile, 
and  rises  gracious  from  her  wraps.  "  If  only  obedience 
would  make  us  young,  Mr.  Brandor,  how  obedient  we 
women  would  be !  " 


XXII 

TO  the  thoughtful  mind  every  fresh  friendship  con- 
stitutes, as  it  were,  a  pathway  in  destiny,  that 
may  lead  somewhere,  or  nowhere,  prove  fateful  or  fruit- 
less, broaden  to  a  great  high  road  or  busy  thorough- 
fare, or  dwindle  like  the  country  lane  that,  despite  the 
most  heroic  and  stupendous  repair,  returns  to  the  turf 
and  elemental  quagmire  from  which  it  was  with  labor 
raised;  or  reach  at  least  by  tangled  ways  the  wilder- 
ness of  thorn  and  brier  and  brackish  pool,  where  count- 
less paths  efface  themselves.  Of  such  speculation  the 
Poet  is  not  altogether  free,  though  light  and  pleasant 
laughter  veils  it.  One  who  holds,  as  the  Poet  holds, 
that  no  chance  smile  noted,  or  passing  face  beheld,  or 
voice  heard,  but  is  absorbed  by  the  receptive  spirit  to 
form  tissue  for  a  soul,  would  be  little  likely  to  under- 
rate the  influences  of  such  a  friendship  as  that  of  Bella 
and  the  beautiful  woman  whose  daughter  she  is.  Its 
potency  seems  all  the  stronger  by  reason  of  the  half 
mystical  semi-magic  soil  from  whence  it  springs.  A 
child's  word  spoken  to  him  by  chance  encounter,  and 
out  of  this  he  finds  the  whole  fabric  and  firmament 
of  his  present  life  constituted;  risen  like  a  rainbow 
forth  from  nothing  in  a  moment,  and  spanning  his 
solitary  heaven  with  friendly  hues  and  bright  compan- 
ionship. In  cities,  amid  a  world  of  friendships,  the 
faces  of  acquaintances  tend  to  neutralize  each  other, 
but  here  in  Spathorpe,  where  he  is  detached  from  human 
intimacies,  and  lives  a  life  of  almost  spiritual  suspension 
between  realities  and  dreams,  Mrs.  Dysart  and  her 

158 


BELLA  159 

daughter  loom  to  larger  shape.  All  Spathorpe  merges 
in  these  two  identities,  and  takes  its  character  from 
them;  becomes  but  an  incidental  to  this  new  friendship 
so  informally  begun. 

The  Poet  muses  on  the  curious  fluctuations  of  life, 
and  since  feminine  loveliness  is  ever  a  proper  theme  for 
inquiry,  speculates  who  Mrs.  Dysart  may  be.  She  is 
young.  She  is  beautiful.  She  has  the  speech,  the  looks, 
the  movements  of  a  lady.  Familiarity  with  the  capitals 
of  the  world  proves  her  a  traveler.  This  house  she 
occupies,  the  rings  she  winds  upon  her  fingers,  the 
gown  she  sits  in,  the  daughter  on  whom  she  lavishes 
affection,  declare  her  affluent.  Yet  her  husband,  he 
learns  from  Bella,  is  long  since  dead.  She  is  a  widow, 
therefore.  Has  this  lonely  state  been  never  challenged? 
It  seems  incredible,  all  these  years.  Is  loyalty  to  the 
memory  of  the  dead  begetter  of  her  child  the  bar?  Or 
a  love  of  her  own  sel f -sovereign ty  ?  Or  a  languid  dis- 
inclination to  face  again  and  undergo  the  vicissitudes 
of  bonded  life?  In  Mrs.  Dysart's  face,  much  though 
he  may  look  at  it,  there  shows  no  answer  to  his  queried 
musings.  And  after  all,  the  Poet  is  not  made  of  that 
tenacious  clay  whose  very  speculations  are  earthen. 
The  mysteries  of  life,  he  is  aware,  are  too  essential  to 
its  beauty  to  be  ruthlessly  torn  aside  wherever  they 
impede  or  veil  the  light.  His  speculations  rest  no  heav- 
ier on  the  object  of  them  than  the  sunlight  would.  He 
leaves  contentedly  to  time  the  solution  that  others  might 
be  led  to  seek  by  labor,  and  asks  of  Mrs.  Dysart  and 
her  daughter  no  better  than  their  beauty  and  their 
friendship  give. 

And  since  the  preservation  of  an  amicable  status  quo 
is  impossible  with  such  a  kindling  factor  in  affection  as 
Bella's  self,  their  triple  friendship  grows  and  grows 
apace.  Within  the  week,  imagination  finds  it  difficult  to 


160  BELLA 

credit  that  but  a  handful  of  days  before,  this  friendship 
lay  unborn  and  unsuspected  in  the  womb  of  Fate. 
Things  that  happen  and  are  once  yeaned  in  the  world 
of  fact,  lose  all  their  features  of  unlikelihood  and  grow 
domestic  to  the  mind,  like  wildfowl  bred  in  captivity. 
Life  shows  more  familiar  with  this  friendship  than  now 
it  could  look  without  it,  so  quickly  does  man's  nature 
succumb  to  habit.  If  Mrs.  Dysart  and  her  daughter  do 
not  derive  far  back  from  the  Poet's  memory,  they  seem, 
at  least,  to  have  their  fibers  deep  within  his  conscious- 
ness. To  Bella,  the  Poet's  origin  seems  already  half 
fabulously  lost  in  sentiment,  like  the  beginnings  of  her 
own  being.  She  fancies  they  have  met  before — though 
whether  in  a  previous  incarnation,  as  the  Poet  hazards, 
she  is  not  sure — for  all  she  really  thinks  the  incarnation 
is  her  favorite  flower.  She  believes  they  must  have 
known  and  loved  each  other  (for  they  do  love  each 
other,  don't  they!  O  my!  Of  course  they  do.)  years 
and  years  ago — before  they  could  remember.  (And 
does  he  love  mamma,  too?  Does  he?  What?  Of 
course,  she  believes  he  does.  How  could  anybody  help? 
O  my!)  Perhaps — and  the  gloriousness  of  the  possi- 
bility animates  her  like  the  sip  of  her  mother's  egg- 
sherry — perhaps  they  saw  each  other  once  upon  a  time; 
perhaps  in  London;  perhaps  before  some  shop  window; 
perhaps  in  Regent  Street,  or  Bond  Street,  or  Oxford 
Street.  Does  he  know  those?  He  does?  O  my!  She 
begins  to  be  almost  sure  of  it.  And  has  been  there  lots 
of  times?  He  has?  O  my,  and  so  has  she,  too!  It 
must  be  so.  It  shall  be  so. 

"  If  we  think  so,"  says  the  Poet  fervently,  "  It  is 
so." 

She  cries :  "  Oh,  let's  think  so  as  hard  as  we  can ! 
What  if  you  should  turn  out  to  be  a  cousin,  after  all !  " 

The  Poet  devises  better  even  than  that,  for  by  a 


BELLA  161 

document  drawn  up  one  morning  and  attested  by  each 
of  them  at  his  writing  table,  and  sealed  with  two  great 
seals,  bearing  (as  soon  as  the  first  anger  is  out  of  the 
wax)  their  respective  thumb-prints,  the  Poet  (of  the 
one  part,  hereinafter  called  the  Adoptor)  takes  Bella 
Dysart  (of  the  second  part,  hereinafter  called  the 
Adoptee)  for  his  true  and  lawful  and  well-beloved  sis- 
ter, with  all  the  rights,  titles,  privileges  and  emolu- 
ments attached  thereunto;  nevertheless,  forasmuch,  si 
quis,  sine  die,  nisi  prius,  and  notwithstanding.  After 
which  the  Poet  has  real  scruples  that  the  document — 
to  be  a  proper  legal  instrument — should  be  witnessed 
in  blood. 

"  Whose  blood?  "  asks  Bella. 

"  Ours,"  says  the  Poet. 

"  Not  both  of  ours !  "  she  exclaims  in  alarm,  and  the 
Poet  tells  her:  "Yes— both  of  ours." 

But  though  Bella  says :  "  O  my !  "  in  a  dismayed  and 
awe-struck  voice,  more  as  if  she  were  drawing  the 
words  in  over  her  underlip  than  breathing  them  out; 
and  then  tenders  a  submissive  sunburned  wrist  scribbled 
with  pale  blue  veins  that  make  the  soft  flesh  throb  like 
the  bosom  of  a  bird,  how  can  he  (carving  knife  in 
hand)  wreak  the  strict  requirement  of  the  law  upon  so 
delicate  and  dear  a  tissue.  Rather,  he  holds  the  emblem 
in  his  clasp  and  moralizes  on  it,  thinks  of  all  it  illus- 
trates and  symbolizes  and  makes  more  beauteous,  like 
Poetry's  self  that  lends  sweetness  to  the  facts  of  life, 
and  draws  the  wandering  rays  of  sentiment  into  one 
clear  beam  of  splendid  truth.  Why,  within  the  circle 
of  this  little  wrist,  thinks  he,  all  womanhood  is  com- 
passed; the  precious  qualities  of  warmth,  of  tenderness, 
submission,  faith  and  courage  and  how  many  more, 
seem  writ  in  it,  part  of  the  very  substance  of  the  flesh, 
incarnate  and  incorporate. 


162  BELLA 

He  closes  his  fingers  tighter  on  this  slender  trophy 
that  thumb  and  forefinger  can  span,  and  says,  to  test 
her :  "  You  draw  your  breath.  You  are  afraid." 

She  says :  "  Only  a  little — not  very.  And  not  when 
you  hold  me  tight  like  that." 

He  says :  "  I  know  what  you  think.  You  think  a 
brother  dear  at  the  price  of  a  little  blood." 

She  says :    "  Only  a  little !    How  much  ?  " 

"  Half  a  pint,"  he  tells  her. 

"O  my !  "  And  then  she  says,  in  a  burst  of  loyalty 
and  confidence :  "  Take  as  much  as  ever  you  like,  Roo. 
Only  let  me  turn  my  head,  and  please  be  quick.  I  know 
you  won't  hurt  me." 

She  means  it.  She  half  believes  this  sacrifice  of 
blood  is  being  demanded  of  her;  wholly  trusts  its  ex- 
ecutioner would  work  her  no  harm.  She  has  the  heart 
that  burned  in  the  bosoms  of  heroines  when  the  world 
was  young;  when  virtue  aspired  no  higher  than  suffer- 
ing, or  souls  beyond  love ;  when  to  love  was  to  be  loyal, 
and  loyalty  yielded  all,  kissing  with  its  dying  breath 
what  wounded  it. 

A  poetic  tenderness  comes  over  him,  a  stirring  of  the 
chords  of  conscience  as  if  the  thing  visioned  were  the 
thing  done,  and  he  the  doer,  and  she  the  sufferer  of  it, 
beautified  to  sublimity.  Were  tyrants  of  old,  he  won- 
ders, men  of  supreme  poetic  feeling,  who  spilled  blood 
that  they  might  luxuriate  in  pity  and  taste  the  blood- 
red  vintage  of  remorse,  like  him  of  the  ancients  who 
was  wont  to  toy  with  his  mistress's  neck,  and  save  that 
she  had  but  one,  and  that  too  dear  for  the  experiment, 
thought  what  a  throat  were  there  to  cut.  They  may 
have  been.  Voluptuaries  of  the  soul,  seeking  to  know 
all  its  gamut  from  deep  hell  to  the  topmost  stars. 

He  lets  go  the  little  wrist  and  bethinks  him  that  after 
all  the  law  is  not  explicit  on  this  point  of  blood.  The 


BELLA  163 

bond  may  serve  as  it  stands.  He  quotes  Aristotle  in 
support  of  his  belief,  and  refers  Bella  to  the  Justinian 
Code,  and  the  Pipe  Rolls,  and  Coke  on  Littleton,  and 
Bella  breathes  relief,  drawing  fresh  breath  for  the  ad- 
miration of  his  learning.  What  a  monument  is  here,  that 
towers  high  above  her  like  those  inexplicable  smoky 
statues  in  London,  and  knows  the  languages  of  the  dead 
as  well  as  the  living,  holding  communion  with  poets 
whole  centuries  demised,  and  yet  is  flesh  and  blood  and 
as  accessible  and  free  as  air  to  the  lungs.  What  a 
brother  to  have  gained,  bound  tight  to  her  by  testament, 
and  sacred  seal !  Henceforth  the  birthdays  of  each  one 
must  be  observed  (for  so  the  contract  runs),  and  piously 
Bella  must  commemorate  Rupert's,  and  he  hers.  And 
henceforth  she  may  arrange,  by  law  and  title,  the  papers 
on  his  desk,  may  brush  his  hat,  pluck  hairs  off  his  coat, 
lay  out  his  letters  on  the  breakfast  table,  and  open  each 
envelope  in  his  presence  with  precise  and  scrupulous 
care,  the  tip  of  her  tongue  keeping  time  with  the  con- 
scientious motions  of  the  paper-knife,  visible  now 
through  her  lips  on  this  side,  now  the  other — rip,  rip, 
rip,  rip! — may  study  (by  right  and  title)  the  Poet's 
countenance  as  he  reads,  and  guess  at  the  names  of  his 
correspondents  from  their  writing,  spreading  prohibitive 
fingers  over  the  page  and  crying :  "  Stop !  Don't  read. 
Let  me  guess  first  of  all  who  it  is." 

Well  she  knows,  or  comes  to  know,  the  black  and 
bold  and  busy  handwriting  of  Mr.  Pendlip,  the  Poet's 
second — nay,  his  only — father;  for  the  first  and  actual 
he  scarcely  knew.  From  him  each  alternate  morning 
brings  a  letter,  sometimes  a  portly  oblong  letter,  fat 
and  crinkling  and  gloriously  expectant  to  the  feel,  as  if 
it  were  stuffed  and  upholstered,  a  perfect  bolster  of  a 
letter,  filled  (in  addition  to  tidings  of  Daisy's  health) 
with  strange  long  documents  and  wondrous  papers — 


164  BELLA 

some  of  them  that  open  out  to  newspaper  dimension 
from  as  many  as  six  foldings,  and  are  as  infested  with 
figures  as  a  baker's  ceiling  with  flies.  These  the  Poet 
calls  balance  sheets  (not  a  bit  like  the  sheets  you  sleep 
in.  O  my!)  and  reports,  very  loud  reports,  some  of 
them,  he  says ;  though  for  the  life  of  her  can  Bella  hear 
anything.  Mr.  Pendlip,  it  is,  she  knows,  who  stewards 
all  the  Poet's  substance,  the  lands  and  money  that  his 
father  left  him,  a  wondrous  man  of  finance  whose  brain 
is  a  teeming  bee-hive  of  busy  figures,  perpetually 
streaming  to  and  from  the  financial  pastures  of  the 
world,  in  lines  as  straight  and  certain  as  the  multipli- 
cation table.  She  has  the  visual  figure  of  this  man  of 
figures  to  a  hair — his  whiskers,  tending  to  broaden  the 
lower  part  of  his  face,  and  lend  width  to  .his  large  and 
purse-like  mouth,  big  enough  for  benevolence  and  firm 
enough  for  business ;  his  bushy  eyebrows,  drawn  unitedly 
over  his  eyes  in  aiming  a  question,  as  if  they  formed 
the  single  visor  of  a  cap;  his  pince-nez,  striding  the 
fleshy  extremity  of  his  nose  awry,  like  a  rider  half 
out  of  his  seat  in  the  saddle;  his  great  gold  watch- 
chain  with  the  early- Victorian  seal,  around  which  he 
winds  his  ample  forefinger  in  deliberation;  his  deep 
voice,  his  sententious  "  Well,  well's "  and  "  I  say  no 
more's."  News  from  the  sick  chamber  that  Mr.  Pend- 
lip's  letters  bring  is  brief  and  business-like.  The  man 
of  affairs  uses  words  with  the  scruple  for  figures,  and 
would  as  soon  be  guilty  of  adding  a  nought  to  the  value 
of  them  as  a  cipher  to  his  pounds.  He  quotes  tempera- 
tures like  market-prices,  and  the  course  of  suffering  like 
fluctuations  in  stock,  treating  his  daughter's  sickness, 
on  paper,  with  a  fortitude  equal  to  that  he  would  dis- 
play in  a  doubtful  investment,  inclining  neither  to 
optimism  nor  despair.  Signs  of  assurance,  however,  are 
to  be  found  in  his  admission  of  the  first  gravity  of  her 


BELLA  165 

illness,  which  now  replace  his  earlier  hope  for  the  best. 

His  letters  breathe  a  sturdier  spirit;  finance  re-exerts 
her  influence  over  him.  He  analyzes  the  latest  balance 
sheet  of  Bolchester  and  Hemeridge  with  brio,  and 
thinks  the  company  might  have  ventured  a  further  five 
per  cent,  over  the  year  without  imprudence.  Still,  with 
every  favor  from  fortune,  it  is  out  of  the  question  for 
the  patient  to  leave  home  before  another  fortnight.  It 
may  even  be  more.  Whether  the  projected  Spathorpe 
visit  will  yet  be  accomplished  or  not  is  all  uncertain. 
Under  these  circumstances  Rupert  must  exercise  his 
own  judgment  on  the  point  of  remaining  where  he  is. 
And  there  comes  a  postscript  for  Bella  of  more  sweet- 
ness than  chocolate.  "  Please,  thank  your  little  friend," 
writes  the  big  financial  fist,  "  for  her  kind  messages  of 
sympathy.  They  have  been  much  appreciated." 

Bella's  lip  even  trembles  with  gratitude  for  this  over- 
whelming reward  of  her  solicitude.  She  is  incredulous; 
can  scarcely  believe  such  a  distinction  hers.  O  my !  Let 
her  see  the  postscript;  spell  out  for  herself  the  momen- 
tous words.  What  does  P.  S.  really  mean?  She's  an 
awful  dunce;  she  forgets  everything.  Does  it  mean 
repondez  s'il  vous  plait?  No?  She  rather  wishes  it  did. 
But  Roo  will  let  her  write  another  message  at  the  end 
of  his  next  letter — won't  he! — and  tell  her  something 
very,  very  nice  to  say. 

It  is  strange  what  slender  ligaments  bind  the  resolu- 
tions of  mankind.  So  slight  they  are  that  men,  and  even 
Poets,  do  not  always  admit  them.  Between  acts  of  the 
most  tremendous  consequences  there  lie,  not  seldom, 
connecting  links  of  such  frailty  and  attenuation  as  to  be 
scarce  discernible  to  Reason's  microscopic  eye.  The  Poet 
might  have  hesitated  to  confess  to  any  but  himself  the 
true  nature  of  his  tie  to  Spathorpe.  Except  for  Bella, 
and  all  her  friendship  signifies,  he  would  be  willing  to 


166  BELLA 

renounce  the  pleasures  of  this  summer  place  and  take 
leave  without  a  pang.  But  now  he  feels  it  otherwise. 
There  are  some  fine  attachments  first  to  be  broken. 
He  shrinks  from  those,  the  more  because  he  recognizes 
their  transitory  character  and  hesitates  to  destroy  quali- 
ties so  fragile  and  so  fair,  as  he  would  refrain  from 
shortening  by  one  single  moment  the  colored  magic  of 
a  bubble  that  ripens  through  splendor  to  its  inevitable 
ruin.  In  his  answer  to  Mr.  Pendlip,  however,  there 
shows  nothing  of  this;  only  those  factual  franknesses 
appropriate  to  the  financial  mind.  How,  for  instance, 
that  the  Poet  is  as  well  for  the  present  at  Spathorpe  as 
anywhere;  that  the  bay  is  as  beautiful  as  Naples;  that 
the  weather  is  glorious.  All  as  true  as  true,  and  yet 
serving  to  show  the  gulf  that  flows  between  actual  and 
spiritual  truth;  or  perhaps,  more  accurately,  to  illus- 
trate that  Truth  does  not  reside  (as  the  vulgar  imagine) 
in  that  hard  and  stony  Fact  which  may  be  demonstrated 
conclusively  and  beyond  dispute,  like  a  pebble  through  a 
window-pane,  but  is  as  molecular  as  matter,  and  as  in- 
finitely divisible  and  elusive. 


XXIII 

IF  Happiness  (as  that  Other  Poet  tells  us)  was  born 
a  twin,  it  is  not  less  true  that  by  temperament  he  is 
a  Tory.  He  shrinks  from  innovation  like  Dives  from 
the  death-duties.  That  that  is,  for  him  cannot  be  bet- 
tered. He  is  no  reformer,  like  his  ragged  cousin 
Wretchedness,  and  at  the  last  great  balance  and  audit 
of  the  world,  he  will  be  found  to  have  done  little  for  its 
advancement,  whatever  he  may  have  contributed  to  its 
stability. 

Under  happiness  the  Poet's  days  slide  into  a  placid 
uniformity.  Life's  unruffled  waters  bear  him  on  with 
scarce  a  sense  of  shock  or  motion ;  save  for  his  wisdom 
he  might  be  beguiled,  as  Bella  almost  is,  into  believing 
this  deceptive  current  at  a  standstill.  Each  day  is  to 
the  likeness  of  the  one  before;  each  day  to  come  is 
looked  to  be  like  this.  Through  Bella  the  Poet  pene- 
trates into  Spathorpe's  intimate  and  childish  bosom,  fre- 
quents its  cherished  nooks  and  delectable  quaint  cor- 
ners; through  Mrs.  Dysart  he  is  drawn  more  favorably 
to  the  Spathorpe  that  his  loneliness  first  avoided,  and 
tastes,  not  against  his  liking,  the  idle  pleasures  of  its 
Parade. 

With  Bella  is  there  an  inch  of  Spathorpe  unex- 
plored— one  single  of  its  sentiments  untried?  If  looks 
left  their  traces  visible  where  they  rested,  like  thumbs, 
you  should  find  all  Spathorpe  mottled  over  with  them; 
the  pages  of  its  cherished  purlieus  as  dog-eared  as  a 
popular  volume  from  the  lending  library.  Some  of  these 

167 


168  BELLA 

pages  have  been,  since  then,  most  ruthlessly  torn  out 
of  the  book  of  happiness  that  these  two  read  together; 
more  are  threatened.  Joys,  too,  like  mortals,  derive  a 
deeper  beauty  from  death,  and  by  perishing  become  im- 
perishable. Memory,  as  if  she  were  a  loving  foster- 
mother,  deals  more  tenderly  with  the  orphaned  off- 
spring of  Reality  committed  to  her  care,  those  sights  and 
sounds  bereft  of  the  parentage  that  gave  them  birth  and 
made  dependents  on  her  bounty.  The  nook  demolished, 
the  landmark  gone,  are  dearer  to  memory  than  the 
things,  though  absent,  whose  own  substance  still  pre- 
serves them;  the  joy  beyond  recall  takes  precedence  in 
the  bosom  over  the  joys  that  are  repeatable,  and  so  sus- 
ceptible of  diminution. 

Where  are  the  little  postilion  chaises  that  used  to 
whip  up  and  down  the  Spathorpe  hills  in  Bella's  time? 
— little  four-wheeled  victorias  no  bigger  than  a  bath- 
chair,  that  could  accommodate  a  whole  family  of  three 
generations  during  the  busy  season;  with  a  bobbing 
jack-booted  jockey  on  the  pony's  back,  brilliant  in  all 
the  colors  known  or  unknown  to  the  racing  world.  Gone 
even  in  these  brief  years,  like  the  link-boys  and  sedan- 
chair  men,  and  barking  night-watchmen;  extinct  and 
unlamented  as  the  dodo.  Where,  too,  is  the  Hillborough 
Bar,  that  stubborn  thing  of  stone  that  lent  its  pseudo- 
mediaeval  frown  to  the  steep  High  Street,  and  throttled 
traffic;  under  whose  reverberating  arch,  when  free,  the 
reckless  fish-carts,  dripping  ice  water  and  fish  scales, 
thundered  down  the  hill  amid  the  mighty  rattle  of  their 
harness,  like  a  giant  courant  in  chain-mail?  And  then 
that  venerated  page  of  ancient  Spathorpe  at  the  foot  of 
the  Castle  Hill — how  ruthless  progress  has  destroyed  it. 
Those  narrow  passage-ways  overhung  with  timbered 
gables,  crooked  as  lightning,  and  thronged  with  smells ; 
where  melancholy  haddocks,  that  seem  to  have  lost  all 


BELLA  169 

interest  in  life,  lie  shriveling  in  the  sun,  and  cats,  sur- 
'f  cited  with  sea  fare,  sleep  by  them  without  heed;  and 
fishwives  thrust  their  red  elbows  out  of  little  upper 
windows  and  talk  to  each  other  across  the  three  feet 
of  interspace  in  unfamiliar  briny  tongues;  and  seated 
fishermen  mend  brown  nets  on  the  wooden  balconies 
that  mount  sheer  above  each  other,  tier  by  tier,  to  where 
at  last  they  touch  the  sky. 

And  the  dim  marine  stores,  that  are  to  ocean  what 
those  ancient  musty  leather-smelling  commentaries  are 
to  the  Scriptures,  through  whose  cobwebby  windows  is 
to  be  seen  the  most  romantic  lumber:  harpoons  and 
brass-capped  telescopes,  and  oil-skins  and  fishing  tackle, 
and  great  tallow-sweating  sea  boots,  themselves  as  big 
as  porpoises,  and  port  and  starboard  lights,  and  com- 
passes and  charts  in  such  profusion  that  stand  how  long 
you  will,  and  look  how  hard  you  may,  there  is  always 
some  fresh  and  rich  discovery  for  the  finger  to  point 
at,  some  strange  object  not  noted  before,  to  strike  the 
mind  with  new  images  of  the  wonder  and  profundity  of 
the  sea.  And  then  the  noisy  boatyards,  ringing  with  the 
hammer,  and  the  ship's  carpenters  wading  about  their 
work  knee-deep  in  a  surf  of  shavings,  and  the  fish- 
curers  wrapped  in  an  acrid  reek  of  smoke,  and  the  great 
bellied  cauldrons  of  Stockholm  tar  bubbling  over  their 
wood  fires  that  look  deceptively  extinguished  in  the  sun, 
and  can  hardly  be  realized  alight  save  by  the  violent 
ripples  of  the  chain  and  tripod  legs  above  them,  and 
the  fierce  thin  wisps  of  heat  that  curl  over  the  cauldron's 
side  from  time  to  time  and  lick  out  at  the  spectators 
like  a  hot,  far-reaching  tongue. 

And  those  wondrous  ancient  public  houses,  no  bigger 

than  lobster  pots,  lurking  in  cut-throat  corners,  under 

beetling  eaves  and  crushed  and  sunken  roofs,  into  which 

the  booted  seamen  roll,  while  Bella  clasps  the  Poet's 

12 


170  BELLA 

arm  to  make  sure  of  him.  Where  she  and  the  Poet 
wandered  around  these  nooks  and  byways,  the  finger 
of  change  has  made  many  erasures.  No  concrete  sea- 
drive  then  girdled  the  Castle  cliff,  that  pushed  its  un- 
curbed promontory  into  ocean,  and  held  the  two  bays 
rigorously  sundered,  nor  had  the  hand  of  man  scarped 
back  the  headland's  overhung  and  menacing  brow.  It 
crumbled  periodically  with  a  roar  of  thunder,  sending 
up  dense  clouds  of  smoke  to  heaven,  and  hurling  its 
topmost  crags  like  defiances  into  the  boiling  sea  below. 
Where  Bella  and  the  Poet  scrambled  out  upon  the  weedy 
foot-rocks  that  scorching  afternoon,  amid  the  fiery  hot- 
ness  of  great  stones  and  the  odor  of  drying  wrack 
and  brine,  and  the  cry  of  circling  sea-birds,  and  the 
splash  and  suck  and  fret  of  waves,  and  made  the 
glorious  passage  from  south  to  north,  no  sweeping  car- 
riage roadway  ran.  That  sea-resisting  mile  of  sleek 
and  solid  masonry  was  yet  but  a  vision  or  the  germ 
of  one;  a  tiny  fitful  spark  in  the  hidden  stuff  of 
Spathorpe's  aspiration,  smoldering  into  brightness  when 
breathed  on  now  and  then.  Nature  was  still  god- 
mother to  the  north  bay,  and  could  be  found  by  those 
who  sought  her.  Her  brows  were  not  then  smoothed 
with  grassplots,  and  plaited  with  pathways.  No  glassy 
shelters  glittered  on  her,  nor  band-stand  shone,  nor 
geometric  flower  beds  feuded  hotly  with  the  sun.  Art 
was  represented  only  by  a  spectral  pier,  that  stretched 
out  to  sea  on  iron  pillars,  crusted  white  with  limpets 
and  draped  with  dank  green  weed  below  the  tide  mark. 
At  its  end  was  a  pavilion  for  the  supply  of  lemonade 
and  gaseous  refreshments,  and  a  weighing  machine  and 
camera  obscura.  Sometimes  music  might  be  heard 
there,  damped  by  its  watery  surroundings  and  the  small 
number  of  hands  to  applaud;  or  a  professor  of  nata- 
tion would  divest  himself  of  an  ulster  and  plunge  into 


BELLA  171 

the  sea  from  a  wooden  stage  in  a  striped  bathing  suit 
with  silver  medals  and  Maltese  crosses  on  his  chest, 
and  heads  would  corrugate  the  parapet  alternately  on 
this,  side  and  on  that,  to  watch  him  while  he  dived  and 
swam. 

But  already  the  day  of  piers  was  passing;  bereaved 
of  popularity  the  Spathorpe  pier  lived  in  a  state  of 
quiet  widowhood  apart,  unfrequented  by  many  friends. 
Chiefly  her  weeds  lent  midday  shade  to  parents  who 
sat  under  her  floorboards  while  their  barefooted  progeny 
played;  or  gave  grateful  shelter  to  trippers,  huddled 
disconsolately  beneath  her  girders  when  it  rained. 
Whereat  the  solitary  photographer  ran,  too,  with  the 
camera  under  his  arm,  its  head  muffled  up  in  black 
velvet  as  if  mourning  a  death  in  the  family,  to  take 
refuge  and  canvass  custom,  and  so — if  possible — turn 
rain  to  sunlight,  slashing  the  drops  off  his  glisten- 
ing hat  with  one  hand,  and  insinuating  the  gilt-framed 
samples  of  his  skill  with  the  other,  and  calling  this  the 
proper  light  for  portraiture,  and  adding  by  his  pres- 
ence and  solicitude  another  element  to  the  discomforts 
of  the  situation,  while  the  raindrops  washed  humanity 
off  the  sands  like  flies  off  a  window-pane,  leaving  only 
the  bathing  vans  and  the  melancholy  ring  of  asses,  head 
to  head,  whose  lot  no  storms  can  make  more  hard  nor 
sunlight  brighten,  brooding  sadly  over  the  wrongs  of 
their  race.  The  bare-skinned  donkey-boy — whose  family 
arms  should  be  a  cudgel  rampant  quartered  on  an  ass- 
skin  seme  with  bruises — pulls  two  of  their  company  to- 
gether by  the  bridle  and  takes  a  crouching  shelter  under 
their  bellies. 

Bella  knows  these  donkeys,  these  persecuted  He- 
brews of  the  animal  world — though  less  than  their  more 
favored  kindred  of  the  south  side — and  loves  and  pities 
them  for  their  mournful  patient  eyes  and  sad  long  ears. 


172  BELLA 

And  knows  their  names,  asking  the  donkey-boy  if  he  is 
good  to  them,  which,  to  the  peril  of  his  swarthy  soul, 
he  says  he  is. 

Did  not  Bella  and  the  Poet  ride  to  Colbeck  Mill 
along  the  sands  that  very  afternoon  when  they  had 
scrambled  over  the  rocks  of  the  headland?  In  truth 
they  did,  Bella  mounted  on  no  less  a  personage  than 
Queen  Elizabeth,  and  the  Poet  astride  of  the  Duke  of 
Wellington,  with  the  ragged  donkey-boy  behind  them, 
whose  toilet  consisted  in  the  main  of  sunburn,  supple- 
mented by  half  a  shirt  that  showed  in  the  most  unex- 
pected places,  two  buttons  and  a  piece  of  knotted  string 
with  which  the  whole  fabric  of  convention  appeared 
suspended,  shaking  to  the  verge  of  disruption  when  he 
ran.  He  was  under  the  strictest  order  to  use  no  cudgel, 
and  did  not,  but  the  mere  weight  of  his  shadow  on 
their  flanks  was  stimulus  enough  to  his  steeds,  that 
wasted  no  time  in  converting  energy  into  motion,  but 
broke  into  a  nimble  trot  that  shook  their  riders  like 
quaking  custards,  and  made  Bella  scream  between  ex- 
hilaration and  alarm,  after  the  fashion  of  all  the  rest 
of  her  sex  that  they  met  or  overtook  upon  the  way. 

And  at  the  Mill,  which  is  the  beaming  whitewashed 
house  that  stands  at  the  Beck  mouth  half  across  the 
bay — a  working  mill  no  longer,  but  a  place  of  pil- 
grimage for  arid  donkeys  and  buffeted  riders — they 
drank  tea  and  ate  Colbeck  cake  at  one  of  the  many 
mug-worn  tables  under  the  blue  sky,  in  open  sunlight — 
beautiful  lukewarm  tea  with  a  rich  Britannia  metal 
taste  about  it,  and  exquisite  Colbeck  cakes  crammed 
with  currants,  and  succulent  with  melted  sugar.  Their 
donkey-boy  lay  on  his  stomach  on  the  parched  grass 
hard  by,  with  his  bare  legs  in  the  air,  and  drank  tea, 
too,  out  of  a  thick  pint  mug,  both  his  hands  clasped 


BELLA  173 

about  its  circumference,  sucking  up  the  fluid  with  noisy 
satisfaction  like  a  quadruped,  and  lent  infinite  variety 
to  Colbeck  cake  by  his  manner  of  eating  it — now  thrust- 
ing it  into  his  mouth  corner-wise,  and  regarding  the 
resultant  fracture  as  if  it  were  a  phenomenon,  now  de- 
taching the  upper  crust  to  feast  his  eyes  on  the  syrupy 
blackness  within,  or  picking  a  currant  or  two  by  hand; 
anon  clapping  on  the  pasty  lid  and  rolling  on  his  back 
to  hold  the  sweetmeat  overhead  against  the  sky,  with 
the  sunlight  on  it,  like  a  mother  with  her  babe,  or  a  cat 
playing  with  a  mouse,  his  appetite  compounded  half  of 
love  and  half  ferocity;  from  time  to  time  clutching  his 
cudgel  with  barbaric  instinct  and  leveling  a  fierce  blow 
at  the  sparse  herb  as  if  it  had  been  the  irresistible  worn 
hide  of  an  ass. 

Nor  were  Queen  Elizabeth  and  the  Duke  of  Wel- 
lington neglected,  for  they  fared  on  Colbeck  cake  and 
lumps  of  sugar  at  Bella's  hands,  which  they  enjoyed 
after  their  manner,  sadly  and  with  resignation,  draw- 
ing by  degrees  so  close  to  the  bestower  of  this  bounty 
that  to  all  intents  and  purposes  the  company  at  table 
was  four,  and  Bella  could  not  lift  the  teacup  to  her 
lips  but  a  soft  intrusive  muzzle  blew  upon  it.  All  this, 
and  the  clear  sky,  and  the  tranquilizing  sound  of  the 
sea,  and  the  purling  of  the  Beck,  and  the  ring  of  tea- 
spoons against  cups  and  saucers,  and  the  sight  of  these 
many  other  humans  seated  happily,  some  at  long  tables 
and  some  at  round,  and  some  before  collations  spread 
on  newspapers  on  the  grass,  and  the  spirit  of  friend- 
ship habiting  even  lukewarm  tea,  drew  Bella's  soul  into 
her  eyes,  and  made  them  very  large  and  limpid,  as 
though  all  this  happiness  were  so  much  pain.  She  could 
but  heave  a  sigh  from  the  bottom  of  her  heart,  and  take 
the  Poet's  hands  in  hers,  and  look  at  him  as  if  he  were 


174  BELLA 

the  scenery  itself  and  say:  "O  my!"  To  which,  when 
the  Poet  asked  her,  "  O  my,  what  ?  "  she  added :  "  O  my ! 
I  don't  know  what.  I  think  everything." 

But  present  happiness  never  caused  Bella  to  forget 
her  absent  friends,  but  rather — as  in  the  virtuous  it 
ought  to  do — it  strengthened  her  affection  for  them.  So 
they  bought  ever  such  a  bagful  of  Colbeck  cake,  and  a 
great  stick  of  Spathorpe  rock  for  the  donkey-boy  to 
suck  on  his  way  home,  and  so  make  up  for  the  disuse 
of  his  cudgel.  And  with  that  they  would  have  been 
gone,  but  their  mounting  was  not  quick  enough  to  elude 
the  vigilance  of  the  resident  photographer,  who  sud- 
denly bore  down  upon  them  from  an  embankment  on 
the  other  side  of  which  he  had  been  busy  preying  on 
picnickers,  with  the  cry :  "  One  moment,  gentleman. 
One  moment,  sir.  The  pick  of  the  daylight.  I  am  at 
your  service  now,  sir.  Just  half  a  minute  before  you 
go.  There  shall  be  no  waiting,  I  promise  you.  We  are 
all  ready  to  begin.  No  delay — no  pain.  A  trifle  more 
to  the  left,  sir,  to  get  the  sunlight  on  the  young  lady's 
face.  Out  of  the  way,  boy,  do  you  want  to  throw  the 
camera  over?  Don't  move,  sir.  Hold  the  donkey's  nose 
up,  miss.  There!  We  can't  beat  that.  One — two — 
What  did  I  tell  you,  sir ! " 

Nor  did  the  resident  photographer's  motions  lag  be- 
hind his  voice.  He  chassed  with  his  camera  right  and 
left,  as  if  she  were  a  lady;  waltzed  and  reversed,  with 
an  astonishing  facility  and  grace,  whipping  his  part- 
ner's legs  off  the  ground  and  wheeling  her  slender  ex- 
tremities in  the  most  aerial  circles.  No  one  would  have 
suspected,  at  first  sight,  the  latent  grace  of  movement 
within  him,  for,  speaking  superficially  and  at  random, 
he  did  not  look  a  lady's  man.  He  seemed  rather,  one 
might  say,  a  man  addicted  to  deep  thinking;  a  drainer 
of  philosophy;  one  in  the  habit  of  employing  the  glass 


BELLA  175 

of  speculation  upon  the  world,  to  view  life  through  the 
lens  of  it.  An  enthusiast  and  master  of  the  craft  his 
acts  proclaimed  him.  At  whatever  cost  to  its  perma- 
nency the  picture  was  produced,  dripping  wet  first  of 
all,  and  showed  magically  to  the  subjects  of  it  against 
the  dark  interior  of  the  photographer's  hat;  next  mo- 
ment as  dry  as  a  cobbler's  throat,  with  a  backing  of 
varnish,  clipped  within  a  gilt-foil  frame,  and  embedded 
in  a  papier-mache  case.  And  that  to  his  other  attain- 
ments the  artist  added  a  profound  knowledge  of  human 
nature  was  evidenced  by  his  reply  to  the  Poet's  inquiry 
in  respect  to  remuneration,  for  he  said,  rubbing  his  acid- 
stained  hands :  "  My  price  is  a  shilling,  sir.  But  we 
shall  not  quarrel  about  that,  sir.  I  leave  it  to  you,  sir. 
I  trust  I  know  a  gentleman  and  a  soldier  when  I  see 
one.  I  wasn't  trained  in  a  high-class  studio  for  nothing. 
Thank  you,  sir.  Thank  you,  captain.  All  good  luck 
to  you  and  the  young  lady." 

Time,  however  he  may  have  dealt  with  this  agile 
artificer  of  features,  has  certainly  been  indulgent  (de- 
spite the  haste  bestowed  upon  it)  to  the  gilt-edged 
daguerreotype  in  its  papier-mache  frame.  It  shows  us 
the  writer  of  "  Mnemosyne's  Daughters "  and  those 
larger,  deeper  volumes  that  succeeded,  seated  like 
Silenus  on  an  ass,  moved  to  mirth.  His  dangling  legs 
have  almost  purchase  enough  to  propel  the  animal  he 
sits  on  after  the  fashion  of  a  velocipede.  The  face, 
broadened  with  laughter,  looks  very  round  and  boyish. 
Bella  is  more  grave.  Her  eyes  are  plainly  fixed  upon 
the  camera  in  a  gaze  of  interest  and  curiosity.  She  takes 
the  occasion  very  solemnly.  Her  straw  hat,  never  re- 
claimed since  the  pancake-tossing  on  the  donkey's  back, 
lies  at  the  back  of  her  hair,  and  makes  a  nimbus  for 
her  head.  Also  she  has  lent  herself  to  reproduction 
without  those  little  touches  of  adjustment  usual  in  more 


176  BELLA 

studied  portraiture,  and  the  confession  of  faith  of  her 
lower  attributes  is  as  liberal  as  St.  Athanasius'  Creed. 
The  round  mark  at  the  lower  left-hand  corner  of  the 
picture,  like  a  cocoanut,  is  the  shadow  of  the  donkey- 
boy's  head.  In  the  background  rises  the  indistinct  white 
gable  of  the  Mill,  and  some  hazy  figures  out  of  the  focus 
of  the  camera,  that  encircle  the  blurred  dimensions  of 
a  wagonette. 


XXIV 

WITH  the  entrance  of  Mrs.  Dysart  into  the  Poet's 
life,  his  day  assumes  three  phases:  the  first 
phase  ruled  by  Bella's  self,  the  second  phase  where  Mrs. 
Dysart  and  her  daughter  both  take  equal  share,  the  third 
phase  that  in  which  the  elder  partner  reigns.  And  if 
we  are  to  count  those  other  moments,  daily  more  rare, 
wherein  the  Poet  enjoys  the  spacious  firmament  of  his 
own  solitude,  we  may  add  a  fourth.  But  it  is  not  a 
phase  on  which,  at  present,  we  need  to  dwell. 

Bella  is,  of  course,  the  empress  absolute  of  his  time, 
commanding  it  how  she  wills.  From  the  early  hours 
he  belongs  to  her;  she  takes  her  sisterhood  very  seri- 
ously; goes  to  meet  him  coming  from  his  bathe  before 
breakfast  with  the  twisted  towel  around  his  neck,  fresh 
as  a  new-boiled  lobster,  and  sighs  she  cannot  share  with 
him  this  early  joy.  But  Spathorpe  countenances  no 
foamy  mixture  of  the  sexes ;  its  waves  ruthlessly  divorce 
husband  from  wife  like  a  High  Court  decree,  and  Mrs. 
Dysart  is  not  of  the  train  of  Venus  Anadyomene — still 
less  Leonie,  who  protests,  at  Bella's  mere  suggestion: 
"Ma  -foil  Oh,  la,  la!  A-t-on  jamais  vul  I  am  not 
a  dolphin,  moil  If  you  have  envy  to  swim,  take  Madame 
Herring  with  you."  So  Bella  must  remain  a  paddler, 
though  dearly  she  would  love  to  make  friends  with  the 
blue  waves  and  flash  her  arms  out  of  the  water  as  she 
has  seen  the  Poet  do,  and  churn  as  he  does  a  wake  of 
noisy  foam  with  his  feet,  and  learn  from  him  the  secrets 
of  natation  in  a  darling  bathing-costume  (she  thinks) 

177 


178  BELLA 

of  navy  blue,  with  a  sailor  collar  and  a  cockle-shell  cap ; 
and  a  white  cord  girdle,  and  white — or  perhaps  Cam- 
bridge blue — braiding  to  the  trouserettes  and  tunic,  like 
the  full-page  picture  in  the  double  summer  number  of 
The  Frock. 

Breakfast  over — which  is,  both  with  Bella  and  the 
Poet,  no  sluggard  meal — they  put  to  profit  without  delay 
the  two  hours  or  more  which  will  elapse  before  Mrs. 
Dysart  shows  her  morning's  toilet  to  the  sun. 

Perhaps  they  wander  over  the  Parade,  while  the 
fresh  morning  air,  not  yet  chased  out  of  refuge  by  the 
sun's  rays,  shelters  cool-cheeked  beneath  the  trees,  in 
those  tunneled  leafy  walks  that  lead  down  by  steep 
diagonals  to  the  sea-wall;  and  the  terraces  are  spa- 
ciously empty,  and  the  colonnade  a  playing-ground  for 
echoes,  resounding  to  their  footsteps,  and  prolongating 
the  idle  whistlings  of  programme  boys  and  Parade  at- 
tendants; and  the  young  lady  is  sweeping  the  most 
cherub  clouds  of  dust  over  the  threshold  of  the  confec- 
tionery shop.  She  leaves  her  brush  and  retires  at  sight 
of  Bella  and  the  Poet,  being  seen  watching  for  them 
from  behind  the  counter  as  they  go  by.  And  the  other 
shops  in  the  shady  cloistered  arcade  are  opening  their 
shutters.  The  newsboy  lays  out  his  papers.  The 
florist's  siren  with  the  bedstraw  hair  freshens  up  her 
stock  for  the  day  with  a  watering-pot,  sprinkling  dew 
on  yester-morning's  blooms,  and  making  ready  to  be 
as  sweet  as  a  buttonhole  to  gentlemen  customers  when 
they  come.  The  bilious-looking  gentleman  with  puffy 
eyelids  and  coal  black  hair,  and  flesh  too  sleek  to  be 
altogether  trustworthy  by  our  insular  standards — who 
will,  before  the  morning's  company  arrives,  assume  a 
red  fez  cap  with  a  black  tassel — is  dusting  his  rows 
of  Birmingham  beads  in  the  Oriental  Bazaar,  that  dif- 
fuses a  heavy  odor  of  woods  and  perfumed  wares  and 


BELLA  179< 

languid  Eastern  vices.  Madame  Crypto's  door  will  be 
locked  as  yet,  for  hers  is  a  later  and  more  leisured 
clientele.  The  great  reader  of  destinies  needs  only  to 
forestall  the  band  by  a  minute  or  two,  when  she  will 
sweep  rapidly  to  her  studio  veiled,  like  the  destinies  she 
deals  in;  so  powerfully  scented  that  the  waft  of  her 
is  almost  as  corporeal  as  her  proper  person.  One  quick 
turn  of  the  latch-key,  drawn  from  her  mysterious  reti- 
cule and  deftly  applied,  and  forthwith  she  disappears 
through  the  doorway  and  becomes  for  the  rest  of  the 
morning  an  enigma — a  perfumed  presence,  in  which 
human  origin  is  almost  lost,  secluded  behind  Japanese 
screens  and  shimmering  bead  curtains,  poring  over 
palms  and  changing  money  with  clairvoyant  precision. 
Spathorpe  has  half  a  dozen  of  such  mystics:  palmists 
and  horoscope  casters,  and  the  more  humble  phrenolo- 
gists, whose  advertisements  are  borne  about  the  streets 
sandwiched  over  the  shoulders  of  broken  humanity  in 
white  smocks  and  doctors'  caps  and  boots  more  legible 
to  read  than  any  palms,  whose  boards  display  out- 
stretched hands  intersected  in  every  direction  with  rail- 
way systems  of  destinies,  or  the  human  head  magnified 
and  mapped  out  like  allotment  gardens  into  a  crowded 
area  of  passions. 

From  the  Parade,  Bella  and  the  Poet  extemporize 
lightly  over  the  keyboard  of  the  day,  touching  a  note 
here  or  a  chord  there,  to  thrill  their  appetite  for  the 
glorious  music  potential  in  it.  They  dip  down  onto 
the  beach  to  meet  the  tide  of  life  that  creeps  slowly  over 
and  obscures  it  from  the  foreshore:  the  photographers 
with  arched  backs,  pushing  their  crazy  dark-rooms  on 
wheels  through  the  heavy  sand;  fruit-sellers  burdened 
on  both  arms  with  creaking  baskets;  the  vendor  of  bal- 
loons, all  blown  big  and  streaming  aerially  from  his 
rude  hand-cart,  to  the  four  corners  of  which  are  affixed 


180  BELLA 

paper  windmills,  spinning  in  the  breeze  created  by  his 
movement,  or  flagging  when  he  stops  at  the  hail  of 
some  breathless  purchaser;  the  ice-cream  stalls,  re- 
splendent with  paint  and  polished  brass,  tugged  by  toil- 
ing Italians,  or  donkey-drawn;  the  Punch  and  Judy 
professor  with  the  fleshy  nose  that  looks  as  if  it  had 
been  in  steep  all  night,  bearing  the  theater  on  his  back, 
its  petticoats  rolled  up  to  the  hips  for  ease  of  handling, 
followed  by  a  hard-faced  disillusioned  wife  hunching 
her  left  shoulder  under  the  strap  of  the  property  box 
with  a  dirty  gum-eyed  Toby  at  her  careworn  skirts ;  and 
the  sand  artist,  with  bare  feet  and  upturned  trousers, 
carrying  the  implements  of  his  calling  wrapped  in  dis- 
colored calico,  who  will  appropriate  a  plot  of  beach 
some  twenty  feet  by  fifteen,  and  thereon  grave  the  pic- 
ture of  a  castle,  or  any  other  object  lending  itself  to 
treatment  by  rectangles  and  straight  lines,  and  will  lay 
his  cap  at  the  corner,  lining  uppermost,  with  three  cop- 
pers and  a  sixpence  in  it,  and  sit  cross-legged  in  its 
close  vicinity  thereafter,  defying  sunstroke  till  flooded 
by  the  tide. 

By  this  time  the  veins  and  arteries  of  Spathorpe 
are  throbbing  fast,  and  life  pulses  toward  the  Parade. 
All  the  most  attractive  frocks  and  pretty  ankles  flit  in 
the  direction  of  its  turnstiles.  The  shadowed  colonnade, 
where  the  programme-boys  clinked  coppers  for  occupa- 
tion and  whistled  for  company  when  first  Bella  and 
the  Poet  passed  by,  is  thronged  with  serious  pleasure- 
seekers.  Scarcely  a  seat  in  shelter  but  already  is  appro- 
priated; the  band  pavilion  rises  out  of  an  unbroken 
parterre  of  sunshades ;  over  the  steps  of  the  terraces  life 
drips  in  color  like  an  illuminated  cascade.  One  by  one 
the  notabilities  arrive — those  familiar  figures  whose  pres- 
ence works  like  leaven  in  this  mass  of  life,  and  lifts  and 
lightens  it.  The  Powder  Monkey,  true  child  of  the 


BELLA  181 

Parade,  in  fancy  costume — who  has  been  fifteen  ever 
'since  she  was  ten — with  flaxen  hair  and  the  most  deli- 
cately penciled  brows  that  can  be  produced  with  a  steady 
hand  and  a  burned  almond,  and  bold  black  calves  like 
inverted  champagne  quarts  squeezed  into  tiny  tan  shoes 
of  the  size  that  pinched  her  two  years  ago.  It  is  an 
open  secret  that  she  paints;  indeed,  she  would  fail  of 
her  object  if  you  did  not  think  so.  Women  paint  to  put 
back  the  hands  of  time;  the  Powder  Monkey  paints  to 
set  them  forward.  Wherever  she  goes  (she  knows  all 
the  seats  for  two,  and  has  sat  in  them)  Eton  collars  and 
adolescent  moustaches  lurk  furtively  in  the  train  of  her 
skirts  and  the  sound  of  her  pettish  footplants.  She  is 
so  ubiquitous  upon  the  Parade,  and  met  with  at  so  many 
corners,  you  might  be  sworn  she  had  a  sister.  Her 
device  is  a  Breton  cap,  with  a  crimson  tassel  that 
coquettes  with  her  left  ear  as  she  walks ;  her  arms,  legs, 
sable,  razed  and  rampant ;  her  motto,  Carpe  diem. 

And  here  comes  the  Admiral,  with  his  telescope 
under  his  arm  to  pace  the  main  terrace  like  a  quarter- 
deck and  offer  his  eye-piece  to  the  unwary,  enlisting 
them  in  a  conversation  the  length  of  which  depends 
alone  upon  their  courtesy  or  endurance.  He  creeps 
upon  strangers  as  insidiously  as  a  seasickness;  is  at 
their  elbow  before  they  are  aware  of  him;  cannot  be 
staved  off;  has  all  the  states  of  the  tide,  trawling  move- 
ments, last  night's  temperatures,  rainfalls  and  sun-regis- 
ters, and  by  all  but  naval  men  might  be  thought  one 
of  them.  For  fault  of  company  he  will  talk  to  him- 
self, and  indeed  comes  and  goes  with  a  shaking  of  his 
head  as  if  he  answered  objections  or  weighed  opinions. 
It  is  said  he  has  out-talked  two  wives  and  all  his  friends, 
and  is  dependent  now  on  the  charity  or  ignorance  of 
strangers — being  rarely  seen  in  conversation  twice  with 
the  same  individual.  And  here  are  the  Siamese  Twins, 


182  BELLA 

who  put  their  identities  together  as  spinsters  join 
their  savings,  to  make  the  most  of  them;  reinforcing 
every  point  of  similarity  and  drawing  recognition  from 
a  common  stock.  They  walk  with  the  same  step,  wear 
the  same  materials,  show  the  same  crease  down  the 
trousers'  leg,  swing  the  same  walking-stick,  display  the 
same  cuff  with  the  same  handkerchief  thrust  in  it,  and 
spurn  mixed  company  that  may  tend  to  impair  the  force 
of  their  resemblance  by  fortuitous  division. 

And  here — who  does  not  know  him? — struts  the 
Baron,  under  his  silk  hat  with  the  wide  brim  that  rakes 
his  brow  sideways  like  some  piratical  craft,  exemplify- 
ing in  him  the  best  traditions  of  the  worst  school  of 
French  roues.  His  blue-black  moustache  strikes  off  at 
either  extremity  to  a  couple  of  meat-skewers  with  the 
grease  still  on  them,  whose  jaunty  points  he  touches — 
with  a  care  for  his  gloves — when  he  comes  in  sight  of 
Beauty.  Day  by  day  he  prosecutes  the  Parade;  dis- 
tributes his  smiles  assiduously  amongst  the  Sex  as  if  they 
were  circulars;  smokes  cigars  with  a  long  ash  that  he 
extends  from  him  airily  in  the  cleft  of  two  fingers,  tan- 
kidded;  and  is  scented  like  a  valentine.  In  fine,  he  is 
inevitable  to  the  Parade,  and  it  is  as  much  the  fashion 
to  cultivate  a  speaking  acquaintance  with  the  Baron  as 
it  is  to  take  the  waters  at  Harrogate.  Rumor  tells  as 
many  reports  of  him  as  she  is  feigned  to  have  tongues. 
By  familiars,  who  know  him  the  least,  he  is  hailed 
"  Monshure,"  and  it  is  certain  he  can  bow  in  French 
and  say  "  wee-wee."  From  time  to  time  he  may  be  seen 
exchanging  gallantries  with  the  Powder  Monkey,  apply- 
ing whispers  to  her  ear  as  if  they  were  tic-drops;  but 
he  is  more  often  in  the  company  of  his  own  sex ;  youths 
principally,  who  spin  walking-sticks  to  the  danger  of 
the  Parade,  and  converge  attentive  heads  to  the  Baron's 
perfumed  disclosures. 


BELLA  183 

Here  come,  too,  the  bandsmen  in  solemn  black,  with 
top  hats  made  rusty  by  the  sea  and  sun,  and  trousers 
elbowed  with  much  sitting,  who  mount  the  kiosk  with- 
out external  joy,  like  the  members  of  a  coroner's  jury. 
The  double  bass  is  unhearsed  from  his  funereal  wrap- 
pings; the  kettle-drums  are  tapped  and  tuned;  one  by- 
one  the  oboe  and  the  clarinet,  the  plaintive  flute  and 
snoring  bassoon  fill  the  band-stand  with  menagerie  noises 
that  draw  marveling  childhood  up  the  steps  to  hook  its 
nose  upon  the  wooden  wicket. 


XXV 

AT  eleven  o'clock,  or  very  little  later,  comes  the 
portly  figure  of  Herr  Toots  across  the  sun  space 
of  the  band  square,  to  the  sound  of  desultory  applause 
and  takes  his  seat  on  the  high-cushioned  stool  with  a 
bow  as  subdued  as  the  greeting.  The  peremptory  rap 
of  his  baton  on  the  desk  subjugates  at  length  these  wild- 
beast  noises — though  they  betray  half  a  disposition  to 
contest  his  rule.  Its  imperious  beat  imposes  time  upon 
the  day.  With  the  first  ebullient  splash  of  music  that 
foams  over  the  band-stand  like  champagne  over  the  bottle 
neck,  intoxicating  the  sunlight,  the  Spathorpe  day  be- 
gins. The  Parade  wakens  instantaneously  to  life  and 
movement.  Folly,  in  this  effervescent  element  of  music, 
disports  itself  like  wit  in  wine;  costumes  vie  audaciously 
with  each  other  for  supremacy  as  if  they  were  bon  mots 
across  the  goblet.  While  the  music  lasts,  during  these 
two  hours  of  self-display,  the  Parade  is  a  world  of  its 
own,  governed  by  its  own  laws,  subject  to  nothing  but 
its  own  decrees.  In  this  secluded  life  of  the  Parade, 
where  things  must  be  mainly  judged  according  to  pre- 
tentions,  there  are  rewards  and  prizes  corresponding  to 
those  obtainable  in  the  outer  world,  and  so  long  as  the 
band  is  here  to  play,  and  there  is  this  shifting  company 
held  together  in  bond  of  community  by  mutual  ignorance 
of  one  another,  they  have  a  value  which  encourages 
competition  and  imposture.  Mortals  who  can  command 
no  reputation  in  the  larger  world  by  wit  may  flourish 
here  on  the  lack  of  it,  and  acquire  a  sort  of  bastard 

184 


BELLA  185 

fame  by  any  folly  sufficiently  accentuated  to  be  made 
familiar.  For  since  in  this  world  publicity  is  miscon- 
ceived for  greatness,  and  more  worshiped ;  and  the  popu- 
larity of  a  face  is  accepted  for  token  of  a  mind's  merit, 
it  follows  that  all  who  can  succeed  in  foisting  their 
features  on  the  notice  of  the  Parade,  enjoy  a  spurious 
celebrity  and  are  lifted  above  the  common  height  on 
the  glances  of  their  kind.  For  such  is  the  attraction 
of  publicity  over  the  human  mind  that  those  who  cannot 
win  it  for  themselves  will  run  after  it  in  others,  and  no 
degree  of  the  quality  is  so  adulterate  and  despicable  but 
seems  worthy  of  pursuit  by  some.  The  very  niggers 
that  rap  their  banjoes  and  crack  their  cleavers  beneath 
the  concave  sea-wall  of  the  Parade  for  ha'pence  or 
what  you  will,  have  their  retinue  of  admirers  to  pluck 
at  the  skirts  of  their  publicity  and  seek  the  gratification 
of  a  share  in  it.  As  for  those  mysterious  individuals 
in  the  sombrero  hats  and  multifold  cloaks  and  smoked 
glasses  who  make  music  below  the  balconies  of  the 
Esplanade  and  in  the  better  quarters  of  the  town,  and 
suffer  it  to  be  suspected  they  are  noblemen  in  disguise 
— so  that  threepence  in  silver  seems  the  smallest  offer- 
ing self-respect  may  drop  into  their  cockle-shell — they 
hold,  for  this  season  at  least,  a  perfect  court  around 
the  precincts  of  the  piano  when  their  afternoon  session 
is  over,  and  have  the  choice  of  as  many  infatuated 
fingers  as  they  care  to  squeeze. 

Most  of  their  glamor  leaves  them  at  a  later  epoch 
along  with  him  who  sang  the  tenor  lyrics  to  the  first 
floors,  in  a  strangulated  voice  as  if  the  organ  were 
wrapped  in  a  wet  compress.  And  even  before  their 
treasurer's  defection  the  nimbus  of  mystery  over  these 
musicians'  brows  was  already  half  erased.  They  had 
begun  to  walk  abroad  without  their  cloaks,  and  there 
was  not  enough  mystery  about  their  trousers'  knees  to 
13 


186  BELLA 

sustain  illusion  and  keep  alive  the  speculative  spirit ;  and 
they  discarded  their  smoked  glasses  and  showed  their 
eyes  like  ordinary  men,  and  the  moment  the  world  saw 
who  they  really  were,  it  tired  of  them.  For  to  earn  the 
recognition  of  Spathorpe — and  of  the  Parade,  intensely 
— one  must  be  known,  or  not  at  all.  If  you  bring  a  fame 
already  manufactured,  it  will  pass  current  here,  and  you 
shall  receive  much  worship.  But  if  you  have  not  this, 
then  you  were  best  to  begin  at  the  foot  of  the  ladder, 
beknown  of  none,  for  the  world  is  prepared  to  worship 
two  things — the  second,  and  chiefest,  being  what  it  does 
not  understand.  For  which  reason  it  is  seldom  that  any 
Spathorpe-made  reputation  survives  a  second  season.  So 
long  as  it  keep  clear  of  contact  with  hard  realities  it  may 
soar  above  the  heads  like  a  soap-bubble,  but  if  it  once 
touch  ground  of  fact,  it  bursts.  Much  the  same  qualities 
gain  with  the  Parade  as  win  the  outer  world.  Moderation 
is  fatal ;  the  prize  goes  to  the  importunate  rather  than  the 
deserving  on  the  principle  that  one  gives  alms  to  ob- 
stinate mendicancy — to  be  rid  of  it.  Beauty  is,  of  course, 
her  own  advocate.  She  speaks  most  languages,  like 
money,  and  needs  no  herald.  If  you  have  not  beauty, 
and  your  coat-of-arms  is  blazoned  with  no  public  or 
acknowledged  merit,  then  you  must  needs  have  recourse 
to  effrontery  or  folly;  outstrip  the  fashion,  or  cultivate 
a  style.  In  follies,  as  in  talents,  plurality  is  no  ad- 
vantage. Rather  reiterate  one,  of  whichsoever  kind, 
than  confuse  with  many.  Teach  the  Parade  to  know 
you,  as  the  bird  fancier  teaches  tunes  to  a  bullfinch, 
by  endless  repetition.  If  your  forte  be  melancholy,  be 
melancholy  all  the  while.  If  you  aspire  to  reach  fame 
through  your  clothes,  look  that  you  do  not  change  these 
too  recklessly,  for  fear  identity  be  lost.  Remember,  too, 
the  calls  on  Spathorpe's  notice.  The  Parade  is  a  hive 
of  buzzing  rivalries.  Avoid  complexity,  that  tends  to 


BELLA  187 

split  its  mass  and  so  disperse  itself.  Let  your  note  be 
plain  and  peremptory  that  can  carry  from  one  end  of 
the  Parade  to  the  other,  and  be  distinguished  as  far 
away  as  the  bridge  turnstile.  With  such  instructions — 
and  the  natural  aids  that  impudence  may  lend  you — you 
may  aspire  in  a  week  to  be  one  of  the  pillars  of  the 
Parade;  to  constitute  yourself  as  much  a  part  of  the 
fabric  of  its  life  to  the  life  that  watches,  as  the  band- 
stand or  view-tower,  or  the  blue  sea  that  brims  up  to 
its  walls. 


XXVI 

AND  though,  perhaps,  the  Parade  is  more  a  vantage 
ground  for  satire  than  for  poesy,  the  Poet  suc- 
cumbs in  company  to  its  infection,  and  catches  some 
measure  of  the  sweet  disease  endemic  within  its  walls. 
No  pleasure,  not  altogether  base,  but  has,  when  ar- 
raigned, an  argument  for  its  existence.  If  life  run  shal- 
low here — and  in  the  hierarchy  of  moods  the  prattling 
of  the  brook  has  its  place  and  moment  no  less  than  the 
deep-hearted  river,  or  the  fathomless  sea — it  flows  to 
pretty  music,  and  the  very  clearness  of  its  current, 
purling  so  glassily  over  human  foibles  and  magnifying 
and  caressing  them  with  its  ripples,  seems  to  cleanse 
folly  like  a  child's  face,  and  show  it  too  transparent  to 
be  vile.  Each  morning,  after  those  earlier  rambles,  the 
Poet  is  to  be  found  upon  the  Parade  with  Mrs.  Dysart 
and  her  daughter,  and  Spathorpe  learns  the  hour  to  look 
for  them.  Somewhere  about  the  fourth  number  on  the 
band-stand,  they  may  be  seen  coming  into  sunlight  down 
the  broad  steps  of  the  Italian  Terrace ;  and  once  during 
the  morning,  rarely  more,  the  three  will  make  the  circuit 
of  the  Promenade. 

Mostly  they  are  unobtrusive  sitters  apart,  specta- 
tors of  the  pageant  from  the  terrace,  looking  down  upon 
its  motions  out  of  this  detached  companionship,  like 
the  occupants  of  a  box  at  a  masquerade.  Mrs.  Dysart 
subscribes  to  the  fictions  of  the  place  in  so  far  as  to 
come  provided  with  a  book,  which  the  Poet  carries, 
but  its  pages  are  seldom  opened  save  by  the  breeze,  or 

188 


BELLA  189 

when  Bella's  fingers  ruffle  them.  To  the  sound  of  the 
•tinkling  band  and  the  sight  of  the  outspread  bay,  and 
the  ceaseless  movements  of  the  promenaders  at  their 
feet,  they  sit  and  talk  and  make  common  fund  of 
laughter. 

And  yet,  if  they  seem  to  take  no  part  in  the  life  they 
look  at,  they  form,  of  the  life  itself,  no  inconsiderable 
feature,  and  are  noted  by  many  more  than  they  note. 
Even  their  aloofness  constitutes  a  sort  of  eminence  that 
renders  them  the  more  conspicuous  when  seen,  and, 
besides,  such  beauty  as  Mrs.  Dysart  has,  needs  a  better 
bushel  than  mere  retirements  for  its  effective  hiding. 
Her  gowns  alone  command  attention;  there  are  none 
quite  such  upon  the  Parade,  and  well  they  repay  the 
surreptitious  visits  from  aspiring  students  of  style,  who 
make  it  in  their  way  to  traverse  the  terrace  where  she 
sits,  for  a  closer  sight  of  them.  And  if  it  be,  as  some 
of  her  gender  assert,  they  are  too  elegant  for  the 
Parade,  this  is  a  contention  for  women  rather  than  men. 
The  view  of  the  wearer's  self,  as  expressed  to  her 
daughter,  and  by  her  daughter  transmitted  to  the  Poet, 
is  to  the  effect  that  "  I  think  your  mamma  must  dis- 
continue the  Parade,  Bella,  and  be  an  invalid  again.  It 
is  so  much  simpler  and  economical.  She  has  nothing  in 
the  world  to  wear." 

By  the  third  day,  this  beautiful  woman  with  her 
fascinating  daughter,  and  the  slender  smooth-skinned 
boy  who  is  obviously  neither  son  nor  husband,  live  in 
the  beams  of  Spathorpe's  eye.  Their  comings  and  their 
goings  are  as  much  noted  as  the  weather.  If  for  a 
reason — though  the  reason  is  rare — they  fail  to  keep 
their  public  tryst  upon  the  terrace,  the  Parade  feels  the 
absence  of  them,  and  there  are  many  to  wonder  where 
they  are,  and  why.  In  time,  and  that  but  a  short  matter 
of  days,  they  come  to  typify. the  Parade,  to  stand  a  sort 


190  BELLA 

of  emblem  for  this  composite  summer  life  that  quickens 
Spathorpe's  veins  each  season  with  new  blood  more 
vital  than  its  own.  The  Poet's  name,  though  on  fame's 
threshold  as  himself  on  manhood's,  acquires  a  local 
luster.  His  volumes  are  shown  on  a  glass  shelf  at  the 
fashionable  bookseller's  in  Margaret  Street,  where  the 
perfumed  stationery  is,  under  a  special  label;  and  at 
the  Castle  Library  in  Hillborough;  and  Bella  has  to  be 
trained  not  to  pluck  his  sleeve  when  they  pass  by,  or 
exclaim :  "  See !  There  they  are  again.  O  my !  I  be- 
lieve one  of  them's  gone.  Don't  they  look  lovely !  "  and 
copies  find  their  way  upon  the  Parade  to  the  Poet's  em- 
barrassment and  Bella's  delight,  who  loves  to  count 
them  and  act  gatekeeper  to  the  Poet's  glory. 

Now  and  again  mysterious  paper  parcels  are  left  for 
the  Poet  at  his  rooms,  that,  being  undone,  declare  them- 
selves autograph  albums  long  inspired  with  a  secret  pas- 
sion for  his  name.  The  faintly  scented  missive  with 
which  they  are  accompanied  is  too  scrupulously  penned 
and  punctuated  to  be  extempore,  and  is,  in  all  probability, 
the  last  of  a  tragic  family  of  half  a  dozen — all  come  to 
a  violent  end  but  this.  Two  or  three  aspirants  to  his 
favor  prosecute  their  plea  in  person.  They  are  flushed 
and  desperate — for  though  he  does  not  know,  the  assault 
has  been  maintained  a  whole  morning  without  success, 
and  this  is  its  last  sally.  It  attacks  him  in  the  rear, 
for  frustrated  purpose  dares  no  longer  to  essay  his  eye. 
He  hears  his  own  name,  very  breathless,  as  if  it  had 
been  running  after  him  a  mile  or  more,  and  turns  to 
discover  an  album  palpitating  in  the  vicinity  of  his  waist- 
coat. Apology  and  petition  are  so  eager  and  hopelessly 
involved  that  they  impede  each  other  like  the  joint  con- 
testants in  a  three-legged  race.  But  their  purpose  is 
divined,  the  smile  rendered,  the  name  inscribed.  From 
the  petitioner's  point  of  view  the  episode  is  a  failure. 


BELLA  191 

Too  late  she  recovers  composure  to  realize  a  gorgeous 
•opportunity  lost,  the  questions  unasked,  the  tributes  she 
had  not  breath  to  pay.  She  retires  hot  with  speculation 
as  to  what  the  Poet  must  think  of  her — and  would  be 
consoled  little  to  learn  that  he  does  not  think  of  her  at 
all — but  at  least  she  has  the  fruit  of  her  daring,  that 
makes  up  to  pride  what  it  has  lost  in  self-possession, 
and  she  goes  back  to  read  "  Mnemosyne's  Daughters," 
while  the  memory  of  the  Poet's  smile  intoxicates  her. 
All  which  serves  to  indicate  his  fame. 

The  picture  postcard  lies  yet — at  this  date — beneath 
a  heap  of  innovations  in  the  lap  of  Fortune,  unbestowed, 
so  this  phase  of  glory  is  denied.  Views  of  Spathorpe 
are  still  sold  in  albums  that  extend  like  concertinas  when 
opened,  and  smell  of  varnish;  or  in  photographs 
mounted  on  glass,  with  beveled  plush  frames;  or  in 
sheets  of  notepaper  headed  with  formal  engravings  of 
the  Castle  and  Parade — these  latter  generally  depicting 
a  Spathorpe  long  anterior  to  Bella's  time,  when  the 
pier  was  but  a  jetty,  and  the  Parade  of  wood;  and  the 
ladies  shown  in  the  postilion  chaises  wore  skirts  like  the 
half -inflated  balloon  that  Bella  has  seen  at  the  Crystal 
Palace ;  so  monstrous  that  the  whole  chaise  is  smothered 
under  flounces,  and  the  postilion  is  pictured  with  his 
fingers  to  his  head  in  perplexity  as  to  his  own  bestowal. 
But  if  the  picture  postcard  is  unavailable  as  a  vehicle 
for  fame,  and  this  great  continent  of  popularity  still 
lacks  its  Columbus,  the  Poet's  face  is  honorably  dis- 
played as  a  photograph  at  one  shilling,  in  company  with 
divines  in  lawn  sleeves,  and  politicians,  and  stage 
beauties — whose  portraits  prove  that  teeth  preceded  the 
picture  postcard,  and  the  dental  smile  was  probably 
known,  in  some  form  or  other,  to  the  ancients. 

Of  the  Poet's  fame,  too,  and  Mrs.  Dysart's  beauty, 
we  have  further  illustration;  for  the  honor  of  a  sitting 


192  BELLA 

from  each  is  solicited  in  the  most  courtly  letters,  punc- 
tiliously varied,  by  the  great  Sonoro,  whose  photo- 
graphic galleries  are  equipped  at  this  period  of  his 
heyday  with  portraitists  and  retouchers  and  miniature 
painters  brought  down  from  London  during  the  season 
to  cope  with  the  daily  crowd  of  fashion  which  streams 
noiselessly  over  the  luxurious  three-pile  carpets,  and 
makes  a  subdued  bee-hive  hubbub  in  the  spacious  recep- 
tion-rooms, and  is  reduced  and  enlarged  and  vignetted 
and  sepia-ed  and  enameled  and  crayoned  and  water- 
colored  and  oiled  in  every  pose  known  to  the  camera. 
To  be  portrayed  by  Sonoro  is  a  social  necessity;  to  be 
displayed  in  his  show  case  as  much  an  aspiration  here 
as  to  be  presented  at  court.  Not  a  bosom  that  rises 
and  falls  beneath  his  posing  but  throbs  with  ambition 
to  be  admitted  to  the  drawing-room  of  his  elect;  and 
it  is  even  said  that  gold  in  certain  cases  forms  the  basis 
of  admission  to  his  frames — which  is  the  more  credible 
since  this  basis  is  by  no  means  always  beauty — while 
rumor  has  it  that  more  than  one  eligible  daughter  has 
been  married  direct  from  Sonoro's  show  case. 

Conceive  then  the  fame  that  can  reach  this  much- 
sought  man  in  the  fastness  of  his  studio,  and  make  him 
solicit  who  is  more  used  to  be  solicited,  conceding  sit- 
tings with  almost  the  condescension  for  favors,  as  if 
each  one  of  the  hundreds  granted  came  from  the  margin 
of  a  clemency  already  overtaxed.  Fame  like  this  is 
fame  indeed.  Mrs.  Dysart  is  regally  received,  with 
fruit  and  wine  and  biscuits  in  her  retiring-room;  for 
the  great  Sonoro  has  the  true  traditions  and  the  spacious 
manner;  his  deference  is  so  profound  as  to  transcend 
itself  and  attain  somewhat  the  degree  of  grandeur. 
When  he  rubs  his  palms  together  they  suggest  a  simile 
nobler  than  soap.  Infinite  pains  and  courtesy  are  ex- 
pended on  his  favored  sitters,  dry-plates  lavished,  dark- 


BELLA  193 

slides  indefatigably  renewed  by  the  silent  boy  in  but- 
tons. Nor  do  results  fail  to  justify  the  care.  Presently 
Sonoro's  show-cases  bloom  with  Mrs.  Dysart's  beauty. 
Heads  of  rank  are  removed  to  make  room  for  it,  as  if 
they  threatened  a  throne.  Everywhere  in  Spathorpe, 
beneath  the  gilding  of  Sonoro's  name,  Mrs.  Dysart's 
semblance  confronts  the  eye,  in  all  species,  from  en- 
largements in  vandyke  brown  to  painted  miniatures  on 
ivory.  For  awhile  her  pictorial  sway  is  absolute.  The 
turn  of  her  head  becomes  a  tyranny,  imposed  on  hun- 
dreds of  subject-feminines,  from  fluttering  school-girls 
who  change  color  under  the  lens  as  if  it  were  a  suitor's 
eye,  to  neckless  dowagers  who  swell  in  the  face  the 
moment  the  cap  is  off,  and  breathe,  at  each  opera- 
tion, like  a  'bus  horse  mounting  Ludgate  Hill.  Bella's 
features,  too,  are  made  scarcely  less  current  than  Mrs. 
Dysart's,  and  her  sweet  and  open  countenance  and 
steadfast  gaze  acclaims  the  model  for  her  age  and  sex. 
In  one  picture  mother  and  daughter  are  shown  to- 
gether. Bella's  arms  encircle  Mrs.  Dysart's  neck,  her 
cheek  pressed  flat  against  her  mother's  own.  The  girl's 
gray  eyes,  fixed  solemnly  on  the  camera,  seem  to  attest 
her  proprietory  pride  in  this  object  of  her  caress,  and 
to  proclaim  her  mother's  virtue  to  the  world.  Mrs. 
Dysart's  eyes,  a  little  lowered,  and  deflected  to  rest  upon 
her  daughter's  chin,  reveal  the  half-smiling  indulgent 
look  which  the  Poet  has  such  daily  opportunities  to  note 
in  them.  His  own  portrait  figures  judiciously  with 
these  two,  and  accounts — with  theirs — for  one  of  the 
mornings  when  the  Parade  kept  watch  for  them  in 
vain. 


XXVII 

WITH  the  blazing  of  the  national  anthem  the  first 
act  of  the  Poet's  day  comes  to  a  close.  Life,  ani- 
mated with  a  single  purpose,  pours  homeward  through 
the  narrow  channels  of  the  Parade  like  the  last  sands 
that  race  through  the  neck  of  an  hour-glass.  The 
ratchets  of  the  turnstiles  click  like  the  sewing-machines 
of  a  Hebrew  tailor  on  Sunday.  The  trams  glide  up 
and  down  the  cliff;  the  viaduct  makes  subdued  thunder 
beneath  the  busy  trampling  of  feet.  The  Powder  Mon- 
key disbands  her  retinue  of  Eton  collars,  and  picks 
her  way  to  the  remote  north.  The  Baron,  wiping  his 
eyes  on  an  inflamed  silk  handkerchief,  balances  his 
umbrella  by  the  waist  and  sucks  cachous  in  the  direction 
of  the  gasworks.  The  Admiral,  shaking  his  head  and 
prolonging  in  imagination  the  discourse  with  his  latest 
victim,  betakes  himself  toward  the  town.  Twice  a  day 
this  life  is  thus  assembled  and  dispersed,  articulated, 
member  by  member  like  the  illusionist's  skeleton,  into 
a  vitalized  unity,  and  re-anatomized  at  a  moment. 

To  the  second  act  of  the  Poet's  day  belong  those 
wandering  excursions  with  Bella,  already  noted ;  the  ride 
to  Colbeck  Mill,  or  roamings  in  the  old  town,  or  rambles 
around  the  gray  stones  and  ruins  of  the  Castle,  where 
the  sun  falls  fiercely  hot  upon  these  antique  walls,  and 
casts  dank  and  dungeon-like  shades  behind  them,  and 
beneath  the  massy  archways,  in  which  the  nostril — re- 
lieved from  the  scorching  sunlight — detects  the  odor 
of  nettle  and  moist  weeds,  fed  by  some  unseen  oozings 

194 


BELLA  195 

in  the  soil.  Or  they  bend  their  steps  to  the  harbor,  and 
seek  a  never-failing  entertainment  on  the  piers,  peering 
into  the  reverberating  blackness  of  the  pontoon,  where 
figures  dim  to  extinction  by  contrast  with  the  vivid  outer 
sunlight  play  hissing  hoses  over  the  flooded  floor  space, 
and  into  echoing  corners,  to  asperge  the  traces  of  this 
morning's  sales.  Or  they  gaze  their  way  through  the 
formidable  stacks  of  reeking  fish-boxes  and  pyramids 
of  barrels  that  cumber  the  piers,  dripping  uncontrollable 
tears  to  their  base,  and  filling  the  unequal  rock  with 
pools  of  brine.  Fish-scales  attach  everywhere,  to  every- 
thing. Bella  finds  them  on  her  shoes  after  a  whole 
afternoon's  walking;  they  float  in  stagnant  bilge- water, 
and  spangle  ropes,  and  glisten,  sun-dried,  on  the  tarry 
woodwork,  and  are  trodden  to  the  hot  stones  like  confetti 
after  a  night's  carnival. 

But  then,  what  is  not  here  to  be  gazed  at  and  lend 
wonder  to  the  eye  that  looks?  The  lighthouse,  gleam- 
ing clear  as  a  lantern  slide  against  the  deep  blue  sky; 
the  busy  boats  that  scull  with  reckless  haste  from  pier 
to  pier,  churning  oily  convolutions  in  the  water  in  their 
wake,  that  writhe  like  mocking  laughter;  the  trawlers 
that  line  the  harbor  and  rise  and  sink  with  the  regularity 
of  bosoms,  creaking  at  their  cables,  and  grinding  their 
woven  fenders  against  the  revetment.  In  the  intimate 
sight  of  all  these  busy  wonders — in  their  close  and  per- 
sonal company,  so  to  speak — Bella's  tongue  is  less  the 
active  organ  we  have  known  it  on  the  Poet's  balcony.  To 
ask  questions  in  presence  of  the  marvels  looked  at  savors 
a  sort  of  impoliteness.  Speech,  for  the  nonce,  is  trans- 
muted into  sight,  and  adds  its  eloquence  to  her  eyes.  She 
vents  O  my's,  and  squeezes  the  Poet's  arm,  but  it  will  not 
be  till  later  that  her  lips  shall  reconstruct  a  wordy  model 
of  this  they  view,  for  memory  to  delight  in. 

For  a  space  she  holds  the  Poet  whilst  they  watch 


196  BELLA 

the  rows  of  piscatorial  boyhood  on  its  belly  by  the 
lighthouse,  lying  amid  blood-stained  knives  and  disem- 
boweled herrings,  with  fierce  eyes  fixed  upon  the  leaded 
hook,  lost  to  sight  in  the  pallid  green  of  the  water  below. 
Truth  to  tell,  Bella  looks  as  filled  with  tremulant  eager- 
ness as  any  of  them,  wondering  what  the  water  will 
reveal,  and  begging  the  Poet  to  hold  her  tight  while 
she  peeps  over  the  pier's  edge — until  she  sees  the  fearful 
exultation  of  conquest  that  makes  fishing  look  fiendish, 
and  kills  her  pleasure  on  the  spot  as  she  follows  that 
bar  of  captive  supple  silver,  drawn  foot  by  foot  to  the 
cruel  visage  above.  At  that  she  clings  to  the  Poet's  arm 
in  protest  and  bursts  into  voluble  declamation  against 
the  wanton  murder  called  Sport. 

"  Oh,  come  away,  Roo !  Let's  come  away.  I  hate 
fishing  and  boys  that  fish  and  kill  things.  It's  cruel  and 
wicked  and  wrong,  and  I  should  be  glad  if  they  fell  in. 
No,  not  glad.  But  not  a  bit  sorry,  so  long  as  they 
weren't  drowned.  They  have  no  right  to  kill  anything 
when  the  sun  is  shining,  and  everything  looks  so  bright 
and  happy — have  they  ?  " 

And  the  Poet,  who  likes  this  slaughter  of  the  finny 
innocents  as  little  as  Bella's  self,  says :  "  No,  Mother 
Hubbard "  (that  is  the  name  by  which  he  sometimes 
calls  her),  and  his  heart  is  glad  to  find  in  one  so  dear 
to  him  a  sympathy  so  sympathetic  to  his  own,  and  they 
abstain  from  lending  cruelty  the  encouragement  of  so 
much  as  a  glance — for  prowess  is  stimulated  by  every 
onlooker — but  go  to  view  their  old  friend  Admiral 
Collingwood,  who  is  the  ancient  paddle-steamer  throb- 
bing alongside  the  lighthouse  pier — that  dingy,  weather- 
beaten  veteran  whose  respiratory  organs  are  a  battle- 
ground for  bronchitis,  and  whose  day  for  long  distances 
is  done,  but  who  plows  the  sea  for  short  trips  with 
placards  on  his  bridge  and  funnel,  equal  in  spirit  to  as 


BELLA  197 

many  passengers  as  board  him.  Bella  and  the  Poet  take 
two  voyages  with  this  battered  mariner,  who  exudes 
steam  and  oil  from  all  his  heated  pores,  and  they  see 
Spathorpe  strung  out  along  the  coast  line  like  a  necklet, 
looking  oh!  so  flat  and  low-down  in  the  water,  as  if 
a  wave  might  swallow  it.  They  have  their  own  band 
on  board,  a  fiddle,  a  cornet  and  a  harp,  that  diffuse  hot 
music  soaked  in  engine  grease — most  dreadful  fare  for 
dubious  stomachs — and  more  people  lean  over  the  boat's 
side  than  ever  when  the  hat  goes  around.  Bella  is  high 
up  with  the  Poet  on  the  bridge,  where  the  bell  is  that 
the  Captain  takes  hold  of  by  a  string  around  its  tongue 
and  shakes  as  if  he  meant  to  wring  its  head  off.  She 
has  a  glorious  sinking  beneath  her  blouse,  mingled  with 
a  sustaining  pride,  and  believes — on  land — she  could 
undertake  a  long  voyage  without  being  sick.  The  sense 
of  comradeship  is  stirred  by  the  shared  element  of 
watery  peril;  they  know  each  other  better,  love  each 
other  more,  when  they  touch  the  solid  substance  of  the 
pier  again,  that  is  not  so  solid,  after  all,  on  their  return 
(Bella  notices)  as  when  they  left  it,  but  seems  to  mock 
the  movements  of  the  ancient  Admiral  Collingwood,  and 
to  rise  and  fall  beneath  their  feet  with  an  insidious 
lung-like  motion  as  if  the  stones  were  fluid,  somewhat 
trying  to  the  knees. 

But  oh!  the  joy  to  take  the  Poet  by  the  arm  and  find 
here  a  steadfastness  that  wavers  not,  to  hold  him  thus 
and  look  the  world  of  glances  in  the  eye,  and  say,  by 
glance  exchanged :  "  This  is  my  brother,  that  writes  all 
those  lovely  poems;  that  takes  me  voyages  upon  the 
water,  and  that  buys  me  chocolates  and  pop-corn.  Don't 
you  wish  you  had  a  brother  like  this  ?  O  my !  " 

And  then,  perhaps,  ensues  the  early  tea  in  the  shel- 
tered green  garden  at  Cromwell  Lodge,  where  the 
unflagging  fountain  dances  still  to  its  own  music;  and 


198  BELLA 

the  long  drive  that  all  three  take  in  the  mellow  sunlight 
before  dinner,  through  the  deep  fringing  woods  and 
radiant  high  places  of  Spathorpe's  loveliness,  from 
whence — far  below — Spathorpe  is  to  be  seen  flushed 
and  glorious;  all  her  distant  bricks  and  bristling  chim- 
neys softened  and  transmuted  into  the  gleaming  sub- 
stance of  a  goddess'  flesh,  lit  less  by  the  sunbeams  that 
shine  on  her  than  by  her  own  serene  and  luminous 
smile.  The  twilight  falls  about  them  on  their  return, 
that  soft,  cool-cheeked  twilight  that  kisses  all  things 
with  its  affectionate  and  endearing  lips,  and  lays  its 
caressive  arms  about  them  just  as  Bella  does  when  she 
clasps  her  mother's  neck.  Other  carriages  are  on  the 
road  with  theirs,  and  many  more  have  writ  their  traces 
in  the  dust,  and  left  the  fine  impalpable  powder  of  their 
passage  suspended  in  the  hazy  air,  to  be  precipitated  by 
the  later  dews.  But  there  are,  thank  Heaven,  no  ruth- 
less motor-cars  as  yet  to  choke  the  hedgerows  and  blight 
the  grass,  tearing  along  the  highways  before  the  wake 
of  wrathful  dust  that  rolls  in  pursuit  of  them  like  a 
giant  roused,  or  a  swift  and  devastating  prairie  fire. 
Nor  has  Time  brought  forth  as  yet  the  motor  char-a- 
bancs,  that  noisy  monster  that  later  is  to  ravage  all  these 
roads,  blasting  the  herbage  with  its  breath.  They  meet 
or  overtake  no  worse  than  ambling  four-horse  wagon- 
ettes, filled  sometimes  wtih  psalmodists  and  songsters, 
and  the  trumpeting  coaches  that  ply  between  Spathorpe 
and  the  places  around. 

And  thereafter  comes  the  evening  and  her  many 
lights  by  which  the  third  act  of  the  Poet's  day  is  played. 
He  dines — and  knows  it — more  frequently  than  pru- 
dently at  Cromwell  Lodge,  and  is  forever  making  resolu- 
tions that  he  cannot  keep,  and  promises  he  must  for- 
swear. He  tells  Mrs.  Dysart  her  hospitality  shall  be 
no  more  abused.  "  I  am  growing  as  tedious  as  a  stale 


BELLA  199 

quotation !  "  he  says,  and  vows  that  the  man  who  can 
never  be  counted  on  to  decline  an  invitation  is  a  menace 
to  society.  And  yet,  what  avails  all  this  when  Mrs. 
Dysart  pours  her  solvent  smile  upon  his  words  out  of 
the  phials  of  her  violet-gray  eyes,  telling  him :  "  I  see 
you  are  tired  of  us,  Mr.  Brandor ! "  and  Bella  cries 
"  No,  no !  He's  not  tired  of  us  a  bit.  Are  you,  Roo  ? 
He's  only  being  polite.  And  of  course  he'll  come.  O 
my !  He  must  come.  I  shall  run  to  Mrs.  Herring's  and 
fetch  him  if  he  doesn't.  And  then  mamma  will  sing 
and  whistle  for  us  after  dinner." 

So,  between  the  mature  invitation  that  the  Poet  feels 
he  should  decline,  and  the  childish  espousal  of  it  that 
takes  away  refusal's  ground,  the  Poet  succumbs. 

Spathorpe  sees  this  trio  at  the  play — in  the  dim  stage 
box  at  the  Desmond,  and  the  older  dimmer  box  still  at 
the  Queen,  on  whose  cushioned  balcony  Bella  claps  her 
rapturous  hands  together  and  spills  the  clearest,  dearest 
laughter  into  the  auditorium,  over  the  heads  of  the  or- 
chestra, so  that  they  look  up  with  reflected  smiles,  and 
even  the  players  themselves  cast  an  occasional  glance  of 
disciplined  amusement  toward  this  enthusiastic  spectator 
who  lavishes  her  plaudits  on  their  skill,  and  can  be  heard 
to  extol  them  to  the  two  more  shadowy  occupants  of  the 
box  behind  her :  "  O  my !  Isn't  that  one  splendid.  I 
love  her !  Don't  you  ?  " 

The  circus — Ah!  that  betrays  the  flight  of  time,  for 
the  old  Hippodrome  in  Marine  Street  has  been  defunct 
more  years  than  lie  on  the  fingers  of  both  hands — the 
circus  sees  them  after  dinner,  too.  Bella  loves  the  smell 
of  sawdust  and  the  pungent  odor  of  the  stable  that  fills 
the  amphitheater  with  an  atmosphere  of  expectation,  and 
clings  to  the  very  cushions;  and  the  proud  piebald  and 
skewbald  horses,  and  all  that  made  this  wondrous  en- 
tertainment what  it  was.  When  the  painted  clown,  pur- 


200  BELLA 

sued  by  the  irate  ringmaster,  leaped  into  the  fauteuils 
and  took  refuge  at  Bella's  feet,  what  more  delightful 
than  her  own  delight?  Each  item  in  turn  she  likes  the 
best,  and  ends  by  liking  all  alike,  fearful  of  the  least 
disloyalty  to  things  once  loved. 

The  Parade  knows  them  not  by  artificial  light,  save 
when  the  glasses  are  leveled  at  them  in  the  tiny  Terrace 
Theater;  or,  for  Bella's  sake,  the  Poet  and  Mrs.  Dysart 
go  down  to  view  the  fireworks  on  a  gala  night,  and 
breathe  smoke  and  sulphur,  and  crane  their  necks  in 
company  with  all  the  crowd  to  watch  the  flight  of 
whistling  rockets — whole  battalions  at  a  time,  like 
comets  gone  mad;  and  stare  fascinated  at  a  Parade  lit 
up  with  red  fire  into  an  inferno,  thronged  with  the  con- 
torted faces  of  the  damned;  and  lend  their  voices  to  the 
swelling  Oh!  of  admiration  that  goes  up,  in  tribute  to 
the  burst  of  shooting  stars,  plunging  headlong,  and  of 
every  color,  to  the  sea — out  of  whose  waters  a  second 
cluster,  scarcely  less  vivid,  springs  up  to  meet  them,  and 
for  awhile  the  boats  scattered  about  the  bay  live  in  a 
lurid  realm  of  fire,  and  the  Poet  and  Mrs.  Dysart  both 
are  reminded  of  Naples  under  the  glow  of  vomiting 
Vesuvius.  Out  upon  the  beach,  where  the  ice-cream 
vans  and  comestible  vendors  urge  their  trade,  there  are 
as  many  upturned  faces  as  on  the  Parade,  changing  their 
hues  like  chameleons  beneath  the  modulation  of  colored 
lights,  from  red  to  vivid  blue,  and  orange,  and  the  ghost- 
liest of  greens. 

From  time  to  time  unlooked-for  mortars  are  ex- 
ploded, shaking  the  cliff  and  startling  an  exclamation 
from  the  unprepared  crowd.  The  bombardment  of 
Alexandria  brings  all  to  a  close;  the  Parade  blazes  fire 
and  belches  smoke;  Spathorpe  shudders;  the  very  sky 
seems  throbbing  like  a  beaten  drum;  one  might  expect 
to  find  the  Castle  prostrate  in  the  morning.  After  this 


BELLA  201 

life  seems  as  empty  as  a  rocket  case;  the  lights  of 
Spathorpe  dull,  and  the  bay  an  abyss  of  blackness,  made 
only  sinister  by  the  harbor  gleams  that  writhe  their 
serpent  course  across  it.  The  breeze-blown  gas  jets  that 
outline  the  Parade  look  as  if  half-lowered  already  for 
extinction.  Nothing  remains  but  smoke  and  the  smell 
of  smoldering  cartridge-paper.  The  Parade  attendants 
are  prompt  to  quench  the  candles  in  the  Chinese  lan- 
terns, and  blot  out,  one  after  the  other,  the  fairy  lights 
that  twinkle  around  the  parterres  and  sloping  lawns. 

Nothing  remains,  that  is,  for  the  Parade,  but  to  close 
its  blinking  eyes  and  go  to  sleep  behind  its  locked  turn- 
stiles, lulled  by  the  sea,  and  shake  off  the  evidences  of 
this  night's  exuberance  before  the  morrow.  But  the 
Poet's  act  is  not  concluded  yet.  The  night  is  young — 
no  more,  indeed,  than  at  the  tenth  hour,  for  Spathorpe 
(if  at  this  date  she  dissipates  at  all)  dissipates  behind 
her  blinds,  and  leads  a  public  life  that  school-girls  may 
be  ruled  by.  The  Poet  in  courtesy  must  see  his  charges 
home;  in  courtesy  at  the  studded  door  must  take  his 
leave  of  them;  in  courtesy  plead:  No,  no;  he  must 
not  think  of  it!  and  enter  thereupon,  in  courtesy,  too, 
because  Bella  holds  his  arm  captive  and  will  not  let  him 
go,  and  Mrs.  Dysart  smiles  extenuation  of  the  brig- 
andage, albeit,  perhaps,  she  says :  "  Come,  Bella !  We 
must  not  keep  Mr.  Brandor  from  his  friends."  "  He 
has  no  friends,"  says  Bella  promptly,  " — but  us!" 
"  Surely,  I  think  he  must  have,"  Mrs.  Dysart  returns, 
with  her  smile  upon  the  Poet,  and  Bella  cries :  "  No,  no, 
he  hasn't.  Have  you,  Roo!  We're  his  only  friends  in 
Spathorpe." 

And  then — for  what  reply  can  even  a  Poet  make  to 

this? — he  enters  with  them,  and  helps  to  unwind  Mrs. 

Dysart's  bare  white  shoulders  from  their  wraps,   and 

they  pass  into  the  drawing-room,  that  is  softly  lit  by 

14 


202  BELLA 

candles  under  amber  shades,  with  candles  gleaming  on 
the  polished  desk  of  the  piano,  and  a  standard  lamp 
communing  with  its  own  image  in  the  undraped  glass 
of  the  garden  window.  Here  the  coffee  is  brought — 
for  their  dinner  has  been  sacrificed  to  pyrotechnics — 
with  a  cup  of  boiled  milk  for  Bella;  and  Bella  may  sit 
up,  by  special  license,  until  half  past  ten.  But  before 
Bella  goes  to  bed — indeed,  she  vows,  save  this,  she  will 
not  go;  albeit  the  dire  threat  on  Bella's  lips  has  as 
little  terror  as  water  distilled,  since  it  is  sure  Bella  has 
no  battery  of  scowls  and  tears  and  high-pitched  cries 
and  kicking  heels  to  enforce  the  ultimatum,  but  will 
go  to  bed  as  obediently  as  the  stars  when  she  is  bid — 
before  Bella  does  this,  her  mother  must  seat  herself 
at  the  piano  beneath  the  discreet  light  of  the  shaded 
candles,  that  show  a  breast  and  neck  as  white,  or  nearly, 
as  the  keys  she  plays  on,  and  make  music  for  her  guest 
and  daughter,  sometimes  singing,  sometimes  playing, 
sometimes — for  she  is  a  skilled  siffleuse — whistling 
aeolian  melodies  to  her  own  accompaniment. 

These  moments  furnish  ample  occupation  for  the 
Poet's  eyes  and  ears.  He  is  all  listener  and  looker-on, 
seated  where  he  can  catch  the  play  of  light  and  animation 
on  the  mobile  face,  and  follow  the  graceful  motions  of 
her  wrists  and  fingers,  and  drink  in  the  music  that  flows 
from  these  and  from  his  hostess'  lips.  If  there  be  no 
great  depth  in  Mrs.  Dysart's  music,  there  is  feeling. 
It  has  a  charm  as  cultured  and  as  gracious  as  her  smile. 
Her  finger  is  femininely  fluent;  never  forceful;  her 
yoice  unstrained.  She  sings  as  if  her  lips  were  con- 
scious of  no  listeners,  but  minister  to  her  unattended 
ear,  and  never  forces  her  voice  to  hard  conclusions.  Her 
whistling  is  infinitely  subdued,  with  an  ethereal  har- 
monic quality  not  unlike  the  musical  glasses  that  Bella 
and  the  Poet  hear  played  at  the  aquarium  by  the  young 


BELLA  203 

lady  in  the  sequined  frock,  with  wet  fingers.  She 
whistles  equally  on  an  indrawn  or  outblown  breath, 
executing  the  softest  and  most  bird-like  of  trills ;  her  lips 
thoughtfully  pursed  as  if  she  blew  on  the  meditative 
pipe  in  Arcady. 

At  half  past  ten  the  siffleuse  lets  fall  her  white 
fingers  from  the  keyboard  into  the  shadow  of  her  lap 
and  looks  at  Bella.  "  O  my !  Yes.  I  know ! "  says 
Bella,  and  displays  as  flexible  and  as  beauteous  obe- 
dience as  her  mother's  music.  She  goes  to  the  piano, 
puts  her  arms  about  her  mother's  neck,  and  rocks  her- 
self awhile  as  if  composing  her  spirit  for  slumber, 
bestowing  kisses  upon  this  expansive  whiteness  with 
almost  the  reverence  and  profusion  of  a  lover.  And 
to  the  Poet,  too,  she  comes  and  tenders  her  lips,  voluble 
with  kisses  and  projects  for  the  morrow.  And  so,  with 
many  good-nights  and  tokens  blown  to  both  from  her 
finger-ends,  she  takes  her  leave — surely,  to  the  Poet's 
thinking,  the  dearest,  sweetest,  most  lovable  daughter 
on  this  side  of  the  stars. 


XXVIII 

AND  then,  by  right,  the  Poet  should  take  his  leave, 
too,  and  does,  indeed,  make  some  profession  of 
doing  so,  for  he  rises  to  his  feet  with  a  prefatory 
"  Well ! "  and  smoothes  the  sitting-crumple  from  his 
vest,  as  though  for  departure.  Mrs.  Dysart's  eyes  are 
drawn  from  the  piano  by  the  movement. 

"You  are  not  going?" 

"  It  is  half  past  ten." 

"  But  I  was  not  asking  the  time." 

"  Unfortunately,  Time  does  not  wait  to  be  asked ! " 

"  How  unkind  of  you !  You  might  as  well  reproach 
a  woman  with  her  age  as  with  the  hours  spent  in  her 
company."  She  makes  a  mock-indignant  glissando  with 
her  fingers,  and  bites  her  lip. 

"Ah!  That  is  unfair.  Consider  me  rather  like  the 
sun-dial  that  notes  only  the  shining  hours — Horas  non 
numero  sed  serenas.  Besides,  I  must  remember  the 
wrath  of  ^sculapius.  What  will  happen  if  your  pulse 
tells  tales  to-morrow  ?  " 

"Always  suspect  a  man  when  he  begins  to  be  con- 
siderate. You  talk  of  my  health.  I  see  you  are  dying 
to  go." 

"On  the  contrary." 

"And  doubly  suspect  the  man  that  denies,  for  in 
these  days  the  only  thing  worth  denying  is  truth."  As 
she  smiles  and  talks,  her  right  hand  toys  with  the  piano- 
forte keys ;  soon  the  left  joins  it  in  the  bass.  She  breaks 
off  with  a  jet  of  laughter,  saying :  "  Well,  I  suppose  I 

204 


BELLA  205 

must  not  keep  you.  You  have  had  enough  music  for 
to-night."  He  protests :  "  No,  no,"  and  she  laughs,  and 
her  fingers  coquette  with  the  keys  once  more,  and  the 
topic  of  departure  melts  away  in  mere  words  and 
laughter,  and  is  no  more  thought  or  talked  about  till 
later. 

And  though  Bella  is  the  force  that  binds  these  two 
together ;  hers  the  fingers  that  weave  them  into  this  close 
garland  of  friendship,  her  presence,  curiously,  acts  like 
a  preservative  to  keep  their  friendship  what  it  was. 
With  her  departure  some  subtle  ingredient  in  the  air 
at  once  seems  gone ;  some  childish  freshening  factor  that 
plays  upon  looks  and  speech  like  the  breeze  through  a 
dairy  window,  sweetening  and  cooling  all  within.  When 
she  bids  good-night  and  leaves  them  with  her  kisses, 
the  room  grows  appreciably  warmer  for  her  absence. 
The  Poet  hears  the  muffled  beat  of  his  own  heart. 
There  is  a  current  in  the  air  that  might  issue  from  the 
palpitation  of  flesh.  Words  and  looks  and  motions  are 
charged  with  a  quality  unknown  before.  Smiles  meet 
smiles  as  if  they  were  affinities.  Words  go  hooded,  and 
conceal  sometimes  their  features.  Nor  does  it  take  the 
Poet  very  long  to  see  what  sort  of  precipice  it  is  on 
which  his  friendship  treads. 

Here  is  a  woman  whom,  for  the  mere  consenting,  he 
could  desperately  love.  The  act,  at  this  elevation  of 
the  feelings,  is  as  easy,  and — in  a  sense — the  impulse  as 
imperative  as  that  that  urges  man  to  cast  himself  from  a 
height.  It  magnetizes  him.  He  has  to  summon  all  his 
will,  call  all  his  prudence  to  his  aid,  to  keep  his  feelings 
from  too  violent  maturity.  Moments  there  are  when 
scarcely  the  thickness  of  glass  seems  between  this  woman 
and  himself.  Nay !  not  so  much,  for  glass  gives  passage 
to  no  flesh-warmed  perfumes,  no  intoxicating  vapors  that 
mount  through  the  nostrils  from  a  woman's  hair  and 


206  BELLA 

beauteous  shoulders  to  the  brain  like  curled  incense  to 
fill  the  raptured  head-piece  of  a  snuffing  deity.  Here  is 
eternal  beauty,  molded  in  a  woman's  form,  to  satisfy  a 
Poet's  every  sense,  and  make  his  heart  disquiet  and 
hungry.  At  times,  when  by  her  elbow  he  turns  the  pages 
of  some  music  that  she  reads,  the  warmth  of  her  blood, 
made  warmer  still  by  what  she  plays,  reaches  and  invests 
him  like  a  mist.  His  heart,  half  suffocated  in  fragrance 
and  its  own  desires,  rises  in  it — the  more  because  he 
thinks  (or  is  he,  rather,  sure?)  this  woman's  sympathies 
reciprocate  his  own,  that  but  a  tissue  parts  them,  that 
one  word  too  many,  one  smile  too  much,  one  move  across 
the  borderland,  one  step  beyond  the  precipice's  edge 
whose  seductive  dangers  yawn  and  beckon,  and  Fate's 
momentous  curtain  must  be  rent. 

All  love,  as  countless  poets  since  the  first  flushed 
dawn  of  it  have  sung,  is  a  madness,  mild  or  furied, 
according  to  the  degree;  and  yet  the  madness  is  not 
such,  nor  man's  fury  so,  but  that  it  waits  upon  his 
reason  and  draws  its  final  sanction  from  his  will.  Some 
prudence  stronger  than  the  passion  that  shakes  it,  holds 
the  Poet's  turbulence  in  check;  reason  trembles  and  still 
stands  firm.  Where  he  most  admires,  he  is  most  cau- 
tious; where  he  is  most  subject,  he  rules  most  regally; 
resistance  by  some  high  process  seems  proportioned  to 
temptation.  He  is  no  anchorite,  God  wot!  The  hand 
that  wrote  "  Mnemosyne's  Daughters  "  and  other  verse, 
is  fed  with  blood  as  generous  as  Falernian  wine;  he 
needs  no  other  vintage  to  warm  his  veins  and  kindle 
his  soulful  self  to  strike  the  lyre  of  love.  And  does  his 
harp  demand  a  better  theme  than  this?  Why,  if 
pride  can  move  him,  and  pride  moves  many  a  lover, 
there  is  scarce  a  man  in  Spathorpe  that  sees  or  once 
has  seen  him  with  Mrs.  Dysart  but  covets  him  the  com- 
pany of  her,  by  sight  alone;  that  has  no  knowledge  of 


BELLA  207 

that  choir  of  graces  seated  around  the  throne  of  her 
beauty — the  fascination  of  her  voice,  the  cadence  of  her 
speech,  the  wit  so  delicate  and  volatile  that  lends  its 
fragrance  to  her  words,  the  culture  of  her  mind  and 
hands,  the  music  she  plays,  the  songs  she  sings. 

Had  she  all  these  and  less  of  beauty,  or  all  her  beauty 
and  less  of  these,  still  her  accomplishments  or  person 
would  make  her  precious ;  but  in  their  union  she  stands 
constituted  a  woman  rare.  He  realizes  and  admits  it.  He 
is  a  worshiper  in  heart,  though  not  of  knee — an  almost 
convert  that  thrills  for  the  altar  and  yet  fears  the  font. 
Where  is  his  reason  for  this?  In  what  remote  recesses 
of  his  mind  does  this  lie  hid  that  sends  its  couriers  to 
cry  caution  along  all  the  highways  of  his  blood,  whis- 
pering its  warning  in  his  ear  when  his  heart  wavers? 

It  is  the  question  he  asks  himself  during  these  latter 
days,  or  rather,  leaves  wilfully  ignored,  for  man  cannot 
always  muster  requisite  resolve  to  sift  the  tangle  in  his 
mind,  any  more  than  woman  can  to  sort  her  work- 
basket,  however  much,  in  heart,  each  feels  the  duty  call. 
Little  more  than  a  fortnight  has  elapsed,  barely  three 
weeks,  since  the  Poet  lay  upon  the  sand  and  looked  his 
first  on  Bella  Dysart.  But  in  Spathorpe,  this  sunny 
forcing-house  of  pleasure  and  emotions,  all  things  ma- 
ture amain.  Life,  knowing  itself  ephemeral,  makes  the 
most  of  its  fugitive  hours,  as  gnats  do  of  sunlit  mo- 
ments, and  by  its  activities  lends  a  spurious  enlargement 
to  the  day.  The  seed  of  friendship,  here,  germinates 
quickly,  and  is  as  quickly  withered,  for  all  things  of 
accelerated  growth  tend  to  a  weakness  in  their  nature. 
Much  more  do  the  affections  grow  beneath  the  care  of 
such  a  gardener  as  Bella.  Life,  indeed,  has  blossomed 
in  this  magic  space  of  time;  a  richer,  sweeter  perfume 
fills  it,  like  the  hawthorn  scent  in  spring.  Bella  blows 
through  the  byways  of  his  being  like  a  welcome  breeze 


208  BELLA 

from  the  sea,  a  constant  freshening  breath.  Anon,  the 
perfumed  presence  of  Mrs.  Dysart  steals  imperceptibly 
into  these  cooled  places,  and  lies  in  the  valleys  of  his 
heart  like  summer  haze.  Mother  and  daughter  supple- 
ment and  counteract  each  other. 

Day  by  day  Bella  becomes  more  dear  to  him ;  night  by 
night  Mrs.  Dysart  grows  like  a  moon  into  that  azure  field 
of  friendship  in  which  Bella  is  the  solitary  twilight  star ; 
first  a  silver  sickle,  motionless  on  the  far  hill,  last  of  all 
a  large  and  breathing  presence,  wonderfully  near,  and  yet 
divinely  vast  and  distant,  whose  luminous  mantle  sweeps 
her  starry  daughter  and  all  these  other  orbs  to  the  con- 
fines of  heaven  and  lies  upon  the  Poet's  world  in  folds 
whose  dark  hollows  are  tremulous  with  the  mystic 
music  of  the  senses.  What  Bella  may  some  day  be, 
this  woman  is.  Her  daughter  does  not  age,  but  freshens 
her.  She  fulfills  the  function  of  an  asterisk,  that  serves 
to  mark  the  mother's  virtues  by  her  own,  showing  in 
her  those  delitescent  qualities  that,  but  for  the  childish 
commentator,  might  remain  hid,  like  meanings  in  a  text. 
Psyche  and  Venus  divide  the  Poet's  bosom;  the  first 
speaks  to  his  soul,  the  second  to  his  blood.  In  a  perfect 
balance  of  both,  can  life  be  better  regulated?  Can  days 
be  more  desirable  than  those  that  pass  under  their  joint 
dominion?  But  equilibrium  is  not  even  granted  to  the 
gods;  still  less  to  humans;  and  flesh — alas! — is  a  con- 
victed perjurer  that  has  betrayed  man's  highest  and 
noblest  aspirations,  a  traitor  with  whose  suspected 
service  mortals  may  not  dispense  any  more  than  mon- 
archs  with  ministers  of  their  subjects'  will. 

At  first  the  Poet  affects  disguise  of  danger;  sees  no 
peril  in  words  and  light  laughter  shared  with  beauty, 
mere  counters  in  the  polite  game  of  friendship  that  are 
agreed  by  social  usage  to  have  no  value  other  than  them- 
selves, or  that  that  the  players  agree  to  set  upon  them. 


BELLA  209 

But  the  danger — if  it  be  a  danger — grows  too  palpable 
to  be  slighted.  He  shirks  clearing  his  thoughts  too 
scrupulously,  lest  they  involve  him  in  the  difficulties  of 
action.  Is  it  that,  like  the  young  colt  in  the  meadow, 
he  flees  the  seduction  of  the  corn-scuttle,  scenting  cap- 
tivity behind  the  meal?  Love's  allurements  he  has  met 
and  fled  before,  has  ruthlessly  quenched  the  flame  in 
his  own  heart,  or  has  blinded  his  eyes  to  looks,  and  his 
ears  to  sighs.  It  is  not  that  he  is  of  those  wantons 
who  pursue  love  till  it  turn  on  them,  and  then  seek 
their  safety  in  flight,  to  prosecute  warfare  in  less  deadly 
fields.  He  is  no  philanderer  by  profession,  and  though 
his  eyes  may  not  always  discern  love  with  the  exalted 
clearness  of  his  verse,  they  never  desecrate  the  sacred 
passion,  or  see  it  sordid.  For  him  love  does  not  count 
among  the  chartered  pastimes;  it  is  a  holy  rite,  whose 
true  performance  needs  altars  and  burning  tapers,  and 
incense,  and  all  the  sacred  vessels  of  the  temple.  In  love, 
for  him,  there  is  no  low  mass. 

Does  mere  worldly  prudence  restrain  him?  Does 
he  ask  who  this  beautiful  woman  is,  with  power  to  stir 
and  attract  him  so  strangely? 

To  some  degree  he  does — but  the  true  poet-passion 
does  not  pore  over  facts  like  a  ledger-clerk  bent  over 
figures,  to  arrive  at  its  balance  by  items. 

What  fine  hair-spring  keeps  his  feelings  in  subjec- 
tion? What  is  the  ultimate  essence  of  that  tenuous 
restraint  with  which  his  admiration  for  Mrs.  Dysart 
(not  yet  burst  into  a  passion)  is  invested? 


XXIX 

THIS  very  night  of  pyrotechnics  and  fluctuations 
(that  is  the  second  of  its  kind)  he  comes  near 
to  make  his  bosom  confess  the  truth  of  it — if  truth  be 
not  too  gross  a  term  to  apply  to  the  subtlety  of  a  feeling 
as  yet  all  impotent  to  free  itself  from  the  senses  in 
which  it  thrills  embedded,  a  babe  of  the  emotions  but 
half  born. 

But  his  bosom  yields  that  Bella  is  somehow  involved 
in  it;  this  passion  aspiring  to  the  elder  woman  is  appre- 
hended as  a  smoldering  fault  that  loyalty  should  stamp 
on  before  its  creeping  fiery  edges  turn  to  flame.  With 
midnight  chiming  in  his  ears,  as  he  leaves  the  studded 
door  behind  him,  and  smoke  and  fire  in  his  brain,  he 
tries  to  ponder  his  position,  and  be  true  to  the  best  in 
him.  He  knows  he  might  have  kissed  this  woman 
whose  own  fingers  unlocked  the  door  and  let  him  out 
into  the  night  cooled  with  stars  and  the  salt  sea.  Nay, 
not  only  might,  but  nearly  did;  when  that  soft  and 
naked  arm  stole  around  him  to  undo  the  latch  and  for  a 
moment  her  blood-warm  bosom  beat  against  his  own; 
and  her  liquid  eyes  deepened  their  smile  as  if  portals 
opened  for  his  admission;  and  the  lips,  slowly  opening, 
made  a  place  for  his  kisses. 

In  that  moment,  for  it  was  no  more,  he  might  have 
dared  to  clasp  this  body  of  loveliness  in  his  arms;  to 
have  sunk,  through  infinite  sweetness,  out  of  reach  of 
all  that  restrained  him,  headlong,  kiss  after  kiss,  as  if 
these  were  stars  and  planets  and  blazing  meteors  in  the 

210 


BELLA  211 

firmament  of  passion,  illuminating  its  space  from  end  to 
end.  There  was  his  chance ;  he  did  not  take  it.  A  thought 
of  Bella  flashed  across  his  mind  instead;  one  false  step 
and  the  crystal  purity  of  their  friendship  would  be  shat- 
tered. The  opening  lips  made  way  for  words,  not 
kisses;  the  eyes  lent  graciousness  to  farewell;  the  out- 
stretched arm,  with  only  the  smallest  fraction  of  a  pause 
— that  but  a  Poet's  heightened  senses  could  detect — undid 
the  latch  and  let  him  forth. 

He  passed  smiling,  with  nothing  but  his  blood  to 
register  the  moment,  and  they  were  guest  and  hostess 
once  again:  not  impulses,  trembling  perilously  to  junc- 
tion, like  raindrops  on  a  shaken  sill.  Mrs.  Dysart  bends 
her  head  for  a  sight  of  the  sky  and  exclaims  on  the 
beauty  of  the  night. 

The  Poet  says :  "  The  stars  are  lovely.  Ever  so 
many  thanks  for  the  music.  Now  you  mustn't  get  cold." 

"  Nor  you,"  she  answers.  "  Don't  be  jealous.  I  am 
taking  your  published  self  to  bed  with  me." 

"  Then  you  will  soon  be  asleep." 

"  Do  you  think  so  ?    Good-night !" 

"Good-night!" 

But  for  the  Poet  at  least,  there  is  no  virtue  in  the 
wish  nor  goodness  in  the  night.  Let  us  be  honest  and 
paint  him  not  any  nobler  than  he  is.  To  know  oneself 
the  conqueror-presumptive  of  so  much  beauty  is  no 
mean  thing.  We  may  elevate  the  mind,  but  sex  will 
still  be  true  to  itself:  the  lion  in  captivity,  subject  to 
bars,  and  rendering  obedience  to  loaded  sticks  and  red 
hot  irons,  but  a  roaring  lion  still,  whose  kingship  lies 
in  his  noble  savagery.  The  Poet  is  elated  with  that  ele- 
mental pride,  that  sees  passion  in  a  woman  as  subjec- 
tion— in  a  man,  as  conquest.  If  he  had  but  a  body, 
pride  would  fill  it.  But  he  is  burdened  with  a  mind  as 
well,  as  spacious  as  a  second  world,  and  filled  with  so 


212  BELLA 

many  speculative  and  philosophic  gusts  that  pride  is 
extinguished  like  a  taper  in  a  high  wind.  This  citadel, 
merely  awaiting  the  sword,  and  jingling  its  keys  already 
for  capitulation,  troubles  him.  He  would  rather  know 
it  armed,  and  bristled  with  defence.  Retreat  before  a 
surrender  that  declares  itself  is  worse  than  cowardice 
that  submits  to  force.  All  his  stratagem  is  required  to 
prolong  a  combat  that  his  heart  knows  ended.  There 
is  no  wrath,  his  wisdom  tells  him,  so  terrible  as  the 
wrath  of  a  woman  whose  passion  capitulates  in  vain. 

So  far,  this  moment  is  averted.  Each  preserves,  under 
a  mask  of  sembled  smiles,  the  show  of  independence. 
But  should  the  frailer  of  the  combatants,  deeming  his 
courage  at  fault  rather  than  his  conscience,  lure  him 
with  a  weak  position,  how  then? 

How  then,  indeed  ?  Why  has  Mrs.  Dysart  no  friends 
to  intervene — no  circle  of  tedious  acquaintance  to  tram- 
ple down  the  prolific  weeds  of  opportunity?  Man  and 
woman  in  a  garden  soon  or  late  must  react  the  epic 
of  Paradise.  It  is  inevitable.  High  thoughts  and 
aspirations  are  but  grafts  upon  nature,  like  the  mistletoe 
on  an  apple-tree.  They  show  beautiful,  but  the  sap  that 
feeds  and  sustains  them  comes  from  lower  earth. 
Always  his  mind  reverts  to  Bella,  and  there  finds  its 
trouble  and  its  peace.  Her  image  comes  as  cool  to 
passion  as  her  wind-blown  cheek  to  his  own  when,  in 
the  early  day,  she  kisses  him.  Her  eyes,  grave  and  gray 
and  steadfast,  shine  through  him  like  a  law.  Her  lips 
hold  a  reproach;  or  worse  than  a  reproach,  a  childish 
confidence  and  trust  he  has  the  power  to  abuse.  He 
is  become  her  brother;  does  he  seek  to  act  the  father, 
too?  He  might.  For  the  object  of  his  passion  is  beau- 
tiful enough,  cultured  enough,  desirable  enough.  Those 
ten  odd  years  between  them  would  be  consumed  to 
nought  in  the  furnace  of  love.  And  yet,  he  knows  the 


BELLA  213 

nature  of  this  passion  to  be  other;  its  fire  capable,  un- 
checked, of  consuming  more  than  conscience  could  con- 
trol. And  he  says  to  himself — not  in  heroics,  but  in  the 
vernacular  of  a  man's  heart :  "  By  gad,  I  won't.  No, 
no !  I  will  be  as  circumspect  as  an  owl.  A  fool  I  may 
have  been ;  I  will  not  be  a  cad." 


- 


XXX 

MAN  forms  but  a  fraction  of  his  own  life.  He  is 
shaped,  like  it  how  little  he  may,  by  the  deeds 
and  comments  of  his  kind.  He  comes  into  the  world 
a  prisoner;  wears  the  slave-shackles  of  the  centuries; 
is  fettered  with  opinions  in  whose  making  he  had  no 
part;  each  stands  at  one  and  the  same  time  slave  and 
tyrant  to  his  fellow,  forcing  this,  and  fearing  that.  Not 
the  most  independent  of  us  but  goes  in  manacles;  not 
the  strongest  but,  is  susceptible  to  a  curl  of  the  lip.  So 
are  we  not  only  what  we  deem  ourselves,  but  in  part 
also  what  other  people  see  us.  With  what  rebellion 
we  will,  still  must  we  bear  the  burden  of  the  estimate 
society  fixes  on  us. 

And  so,  this  conflict  of  divided  nature  that  vexes 
the  Poet's  mind,  is  not  the  only  influence  at  work  upon 
his  destiny.  His  destiny  is  subject  to  wider  influences 
still.  Other  processes  are  busy.  Spathorpe  takes  a 
part  in  it.  This  public  eye  that  watches  him,  we  may 
liken  to  another  orb  in  heaven;  a  second  sun,  ungov- 
erned  by  the  hours  and  motions  of  the  first,  that  rises 
betimes  and  sets  late,  and  waxes  bright  and  mercilessly 
hot,  scorching  what  it  fructified  and  making  drought 
of  those  green  places  nurtured  by  its  early  beams.  Man 
pays  dearly  for  the  interest  of  his  fellows.  Fame,  at 
best,  is  but  a  livery,  assumed  in  servitude  like  the  waist- 
coat of  the  hotel  porter,  whose  sumptuous  gilding  is  a 
satire  on  the  service  demanded  of  it. 

Thus,  and  soon,  there  grows  a  whisper  on  the 
214 


BELLA  215 

Parade.  The  Poet's  name  is  spoken  with  an  altered 
breath;  eyes  cut  deeper  in  their  scrutiny  of  him,  and 
with  a  visible  lessening  of  consideration,  as  if  his  senses 
were  grown  harder,  or  theirs  more  blunt.  When  he 
walks  with  Mrs.  Dysart  and  her  daughter  through  the 
crowded  ranks  of  the  Parade,  regards  buzz  perceptibly 
about  them.  There  are  degrees  even  in  the  democracy 
of  nudges,  not  to  be  mistaken  by  their  student.  By  his 
sex  the  Poet  is  scanned  with  looks  less  curious  than 
covetous;  by  women,  with  less  of  admiration  than  curi- 
osity. Here  and  there  are  those  that  turn  their  heads 
as  Mrs  Dysart  goes  by ;  and  once,  even,  when  she  seats 
herself  with  the  Poet  and  Bella  on  a  bench  whose  further 
end  two  elderly  ladies  already  occupy,  the  nearer  of  the 
couple  rises  from  her  place  to  the  acid  query:  "Shall 
we  go,  dear  ?  I  think  we  had  better !  " 

Charity  shall  put  her  best  construction  on  the  act. 
Perhaps  these  elderly  people  are  caught  at  a  disadvan- 
tage in  a  coloquy,  like  matrons  at  spring  cleaning,  with 
all  their  family  cupboards  open  and  their  grisly  skeletons 
exposed — though  to  the  casual  eye  they  showed  as  silent 
sitters,  blinking  withered  eyelids  in  the  sun.  Or  they 
may  have  taken  their  leave  out  of  mere  nice  feeling, 
somewhat  brusquely  expressed  that  seeks  to  give  these 
newcomers  the  freedom  they  have  themselves  enjoyed 
till  now.  Only  Mrs.  Dysart  notices  the  act.  Her  sex 
divines  it;  not  her  eyes — for  those  her  sunshade  pre- 
vents. After  a  moment  she  twirls  the  interceptive  sun- 
shade to  her  other  shoulder,  and  takes  advantage  to 
steal  a  glance  at  the  departing  figures.  It  is  only  a 
glance  that  falls  upon  them  as  by  accident,  from  a  coun- 
tenance made  gracious  with  smiles,  but  the  glance  would 
know  these  offenders  again.  Bella  reads  only  the  big- 
gest print  in  life ;  she  is  no  student  of  italics  or  marginal 
notes,  understands  nothing  of  the  present  page.  To  the 


216  BELLA 

Poet,  blindness  is  protective  in  a  world  where  so  much 
observation  is  practised.  His  aim  is  rather  to  ignore 
all  signs  than  to  see  them  lest  he  may  be  accused  of 
seeking.  Far  is  he  from  noting,  further  still  from  sus- 
pecting, any  change  in  the  constitution  of  this  public 
world  in  which  he  lives.  He  perceives  the  same  music 
and  laughter;  the  same  lightness  and  movement,  the 
same  bright  sun,  the  same  blue  sea.  Externally,  life  is 
what  it  was,  the  world  immutable;  the  only  alteration 
is  within  himself — unseen,  he  thinks,  and  unsuspected. 
And  so  Rumor  stalks  abroad,  rustling  like  a  painted 
lady  in  her  gown  of  silks. 

All  in  good  time,  or  in  the  very  worst,  this  shameless 
lady  accosted  our  early  friend,  the  Rev.  Alfred  Hig- 
ginson.  He  was  naturally  not  unshocked,  and  but  that 
she  appeared  to  him  in  the  discourse  of  a  brother  divine, 
doubtless  he  had  shaken  her  hand  from  his  arm  with 
Christian  repugnance,  and  lent  her  no  heed.  Twice,  to 
be  sure,  he  said :  "  I  can  scarcely  believe  it ! "  but  his 
brother  divine  held  firm,  and  imparted  much  behind  a 
benedictory  hand.  And  after  all,  news  is  news,  and 
women  are  women,  and  rectors  are  only  mortal,  and 
perhaps — to  be  quite  fair — mankind  propagates  slanders 
less  through  innate  malice  than  the  pleasure  of  culling 
its  fellow-man's  surprise,  and  enjoying  the  wonder  that 
its  news  creates.  And  vice  in  others,  when  everything 
is  said  and  done,  has  at  least  this  advantage  as  a  topic, 
that  it  heightens  the  sense  of  self-respect  in  those  that 
deplore  it,  and  confirms  them  in  a  proper  virtue.  With- 
out a  sufficiency  of  neighboring  sins  to  maintain  the 
standard  of  its  self-respect,  the  very  fabric  of  society 
would  totter.  The  wicked  are  as  necessary  to  us  as  the 
poor;  for  the  second  cheapen  the  cost  of  labor,  the  first 
of  virtue.  In  an  exclusive  society  of  saints,  the  cost 
of  good  living  must  be  exorbitantly  high. 


BELLA  217 

And  here,  too,  is  a  paradox  that  will  bear  thinking  on. 
Will  anybody  deny  that  frailty  is  more  common  to  hu- 
manity than  its  opposite,  or  that  a  good  deed  is  less  fre- 
quent than  an  ill  one?  And  yet  does  the  recital  of  ten 
good  deeds  excite  as  much  surprise  as  a  piece  of  scandal 
no  bigger  than  a  threepenny  bit?  Here,  perhaps,  is  the 
truth  of  it.  Virtue  belongs  to  the  family  of  conduct 
only  by  adoption;  scandal  is  kith  to  our  very  blood. 
The  Rev.  Alfred  Higginson  might  forget  a  fact  or  two 
in  regard  to  the  mission  in  Polynesia,  for  which  his 
brother  divine  was  the  district  secretary,  but  he  did  not 
overlook  any  part  of  that  other  and  more  stimulating 
news.  Twice  at  the  tea-table  he  gazed  at  his  wife  as 
if  he  wished  the  family  absent,  and  his  wife,  with  a 
woman's  unfailing  intuition,  asked :  "  Well  ?  "  knowing 
there  was  news  in  store  for  her  at  the  first  suitable 
moment. 

That  was  only  one  tea-table  out  of  many  in  Spathorpe 
where  the  Poet's  metamorphosis  took  place.  And  be- 
fore long  these  whisperings  came  nearer  home ;  and  stray 
fruits  in  this  Poet's  Paradise  began  unaccountably  to  fall, 
mysterious  omens  for  which  no  explanation  could  be 
given.  One  afternoon,  for  instance,  Bella  had  pressed 
the  Polliwog  against  the  garden  gate  and  was  teasing  him 
quietly  in  her  own  insistent  and  sober  way,  asking  which 
of  the  star-fish  at  the  bottom  of  his  bucket  were  for  her, 
whereas  she  wanted  none,  and  he  them  all. 

"  This  ? "  she  asked,  pointing  her  finger  into  the 
bucket,  where  the  asteroids  blinked  under  shaken  sea- 
water.  The  Polliwog's  chin  sought  refuge  in  his  neck 
— for  he  wore  but  a  blue  jersey,  and  had  no  collar  in 
which  the  receding  member  might  be  secreted.  A  squint 
of  the  eyes  and  a  shake  of  the  head  signified  refusal. 

"  Well   then,   this  one  ? "   suggested   Bella   with   the 

friendliest    alternative,    shifting    the    direction    of    her 
15 


218  BELLA 

finger.  "You'll  give  me  this  one,  won't  you?  You 
would,  wouldn't  you  ?  O  my !  I  think  I'd  love  this  one, 
and  a  teeny  bit  of  the  sea-weed  too,  for  it  to  sit  on. 
And  you'd  lend  me  your  bucket,  wouldn't  you,  to  carry 
it  home  in,  if  I  asked  you  ?  " 

The  Polliwog  shook  his  head  once  more,  with  his 
eye-spaces  so  narrowed  that  Bella's  glance  could  scarcely 
find  admission.  When  Bella  was  at  a  safe  distance  on 
the  balcony  he  had  a  repartee  tjjat  served,  but  when  this 
self-possessed  young  lady  held  him  at  close  quarters, 
and  her  gray  eyes  scrutinized  his  countenance  as  if  it 
were  a  map,  speech  failed  him  and  he  showed  ambition 
to  be  gone. 

"  Won't  you  ?  "  insisted  Bella,  curious  to  plumb  the 
depths  of  this  ungenerous  refusal.  "Why  not?" 

"  It's  sister's,"  said  Master  Machiavelli,  with  his  face 
averted  to  the  palings. 

"  Sister's  ? "  asked  Bella,  with  a  new  direction  for 
her  interest.  "  Which  sister  ?  " 

The  Polliwog's  eyes  contracted  further.  He  looked 
like  a  cockroach  squirming  down  a  chink  in  the  kitchen 
when  the  light  is  turned  on. 

"  Blanche." 

"  Is  that  Blanche  with  the  pretty  blue  ribbon  in  her 
hair?" 

"Yes." 

"And  the  check-straw  hat?" 

"  Yes.    That's  Emmeline's  hat." 

"  She's  awfully  pretty,  isn't  she  ?  "  Bella  exclaimed, 
with  a  startling  excursion  into  sentiment.  "  I  should 
think  you  must  be  frightfully  fond  of  her."  The  flame 
of  enthusiasm  in  her  countenance  burned  to  a  positive 
beacon.  "Yes,  indeed.  I'm  sure  you  must.  You  love 
her,  don't  you?"  The  fervor  of  her  inquiry  and  the 
light  in  her  eyes  abashed  the  Polliwog  into  rebellion. 


BELLA  219 

"  I  kicked  her  yesterday,"  he  said.  "  And  I  shall 
kick  her  harder  if  she  does  it  again." 

"  Oh ! "  cried  Bella,  with  the  most  horrified  reproof ; 
the  flame  in  her  eyes  all  blown  to  turbulent  consterna- 
tion. What  of  rebuke  she  might  have  poured  upon  the 
Polliwog's  luckless  head  will  never  now  be  known,  for 
at  that  moment  the  name  "  Roger ! "  was  boomed  from 
some  invisible  point  in  space  (though  Bella  searched  the 
lower  window  keenly  to  locate  the  voice)  and  without  a 
further  word  the  Polliwog  pushed  open  the  gate  and 
slunk  up  the  garden  path. 

As  soon  as  the  door  announced  his  arrival,  the  name 
"  Roger "  was  repeated  from  the  lower  sitting-room. 
He  wiped  his  sand-shoes  with  long  and  elaborate  care 
upon  the  mat — till  a  third  utterance  of  his  name  drew 
him  somewhat  hastily  into  the  parental  presence. 

The  Rev.  Alfred  Higginson  looked  up  from  the 
Church  Times  and  faced  the  son  on  whom  the  future 
spirituality  of  a  parish  depends.  The  Polliwog's  sisters 
were  also  in  the  room,  slightly  flushed  with  expectation 
and  a  little  awe. 

"  M-m-yes !  "  said  the  Rev.  Alfred  Higginson,  with  a 
degree  of  deliberation  in  pronouncement  of  the  word, 
signifying  displeasure.  "  I'd  rather  you  came  in  at  once, 
Roger,  without  loitering  at  the  gate,  and  mixing  your- 
self up  with  people  who  do  not  concern  you.  What? 
.  .  .  Because  your  father  tells  you,  and  because  of  the 
Fifth  Commandment.  Which  is  the  Fifth  Command- 
ment? 'Honor  thy '" 


1 '  Honor  thy  father  and  thy '  " 

"  '  Mother  that  thy '  " 

"  '  Days  may  be '  " 

"  '  Long  in  the '  " 

" '  Land  that  the  Lord  thy  God  giveth  thee.' " 

"  I  would  prefer  you  not  to  encourage  any  friend- 


220  BELLA 

ship  with  the  little  girl  you  were  talking  to  just  now. 
She  may  be  a  very  estimable  little  girl,  but  her  ac- 
quaintance is  not  one  which  I  desire  you  to  cultivate. 
You  have  your  sisters  and  brothers,  and  your  mother 
and  father — quite  sufficient  companions,  I  am  sure,  to 
remove  all  excuse  for  picking  up  undesirable  friends. 
In  future,  please,  understand  that  you  are  to  drop  these 
promiscuous  intimacies,  and  be  thankful  you  have  good 
parents  and  sisters  to  take  an  interest  in  you  and  set 
you  an  example  you  need  never  be  ashamed  to  follow. 

"  Ah !  Now,  come  and  show  me  what  you  have  in 
your  bucket.  Do  you  remember  the  scientific  name  for 
this,  that  I  told  you  the  other  day?  A  penny  for  the 
first  correct  reply !  Now,  Blanche — now,  Emmeline !  " 

And  the  next  time  the  Polliwog  met  Bella  he  looked 
as  guilty  as  if  he  had  a  stolen  herring  under  his  jersey, 
and  hung  his  head,  and  turned  a  burglar's  lantern  stare 
at  the  railings,  and  passed  her  by  without  a  word,  for 
all  her  lips  were  shaped  to  greeting;  and  thereafter 
shunned  her  abominably. 

Even  the  Rev.  Alfred  Higginson — though  he  had 
never  acknowledged  Bella  by  any  but  oblique  signs  of 
recognition  or  good-will,  seemed  wrapped  now  in  im- 
penetrable reserve;  and  not  one  of  the  family — Bella 
noticed — ever  turned  a  face  to  the  Poet's  balcony  ex- 
cept from  afar,  when  Blanche  or  Emmeline  (never 
Roger)  flashed  a  quick  look  backward. 

Oh !  Bella  was  grieved.  Retribution  she  could  have 
suffered,  but  her  heart  was  innocent  of  crime,  and  in- 
gratitude cut  her.  The  Polliwog  had  dipped  free  and 
not  too  cleanly  fingers  into  her  chocolates  and  pop-corns, 
and  caught  them,  at  her  throwing,  from  the  balcony. 
And  now,  though  he  missed  the  chocolates,  he  pretended 
not  to  hear  when  she  spoke  from  the  Poet's  window. 
Bella  took  her  sad  case  to  the  Poet,  and  laid  it  before 


BELLA  221 

him,  arguing  eloquently  like  another  Portia,  but  the 
Poet  only  laughed.  Little  he  suspected  that  her  case, 
so  sorrowfully  put,  was  his,  himself  the  cause  of  her 
penalties.  He  saw  in  Roger's  baseness  but  the  rude  self- 
justification  of  an  awkward  boy,  pushed,  perhaps,  by 
family  twitterings  of  a  fondness  for  Bella,  into  acts  of 
aggressive  denial — no  more. 

"  He  is  a  beetle,"  the  Poet  told  Bella,  "  and  ought  to 
be  trodden  on." 

"  But  I  don't  want  him  trodden  on,"  said  Bella.  "  I 
want  him  to  be  friends,  like  we  were." 

"Be  bigger  friends  with  me,  instead,"  the  Poet  con- 
soled her.  "  I  will  be  as  greedy  as  the  Polliwog,  and 
eat  all  your  chocolates  for  you,  if  that  is  what  you 
want." 

"  O  my !  We  couldn't  be  bigger  friends  than  we 
are,  could  we  ? "  cried  Bella,  and  in  the  rapture  with 
which  she  viewed  the  noble  architecture  of  their  friend- 
ship, her  grievance  waned. 

It  was  from  this  very  topic  that  a  curious  little  con- 
versation started  and  took  its  course.  The  Poet  was 
seated  at  his  writing-table  when  Bella  brought  her 
grievance  to  the  bar — hot  from  the  injustice  suffered — 
and  she  stood  by  the  arm  of  his  chair  with  one  hand 
upon  that  and  one  upon  the  table.  Of  a  sudden  she 
propounded  this  startling  conundrum: 

"  How  do  people  really  come  to  get  married?" 

To  which  the  Poet  answered :  "  I  don't  know,  Bella. 
I  never  learned  Chinese." 

"  It  isn't  Chinese,"  repudiated  Bella.  "  It's  a  ques- 
tion. I  asked  mamma,  and  she  only  laughed  and  said 
there  were  a  number  of  ways,  all  equally  bad." 

"  I  must  not  contradict  mamma." 

"They  have  to  fall  in  love,  first — haven't  they?" 

"  So  I  have  been  told." 


222  BELLA 

"  Yes.  Mamma  says  that's  the  very  worst  way  of 
all.  When  people  marry  for  love,  mamma  says  it's  like 
going  to  the  dentist  and  having  gas,  and  then  waking  up 
when  it's  all  over  to  find  he's  drawn  the  wrong  tooth. 
But  I  know  she  didn't  mean  that,  for  she  was  laughing 
all  the  time,  and  called  me  a  funny  girl." 

Bella  toyed  with  the  Poet's  paper  knife.  "  What  does 
it  feel  like,  to  fall  in  love?  Really  in  love." 

"  Perhaps  mamma  might  tell  you." 

"  You've  never  been  really  in  love,  have  you  ?  " 

"  Never." 

"  Never  with  anybody  ?  " 

"  Never  with  anybody." 

"  Would  you  like  to  fall  in  love  some  day  ?  " 

"  Really — you  take  me  unawares,   Bella." 

"  Suppose — "  said  Bella,  and  lowered  her  face  a 
little,  to  obtain  a  straighter  view  of  his  eyes.  "  Yes. 
Let's  suppose.  O  my!  I  love  supposing — don't  you? 
Suppose  I  was  older — lots  older — as  old  as  ever  you 
like.  What?" 

"  I  didn't  say  a  word." 

"No.     I  know  you  didn't.     Well?" 

"Well?" 

" Well— suppose  that!" 

"  Well,  I  do  suppose  that,  Bella — with  all  my  heart." 

At  which  point  there  came  a  pause.  For  awhile 
Bella's  gaze  rummaged  deep  in  his. 

Then  she  resumed  with  a  slightly  wavering: 
"  Well — well,  we've  supposed  that,  haven't  we  ?  O  my ! 
Yes — we've  supposed  that.  And  now  what  was  I  going 
to  say — can  you  guess  ?  " 

"  Not  in  the  least." 

"  Can't  you  ?  O  my !  Isn't  it  hard  sometimes  to  say 
what  one  wants  ?  "  And  then,  with  another  look  at  the 
Poet's  countenance,  similar  to  that  that  a  diver  bestows 


BELLA  223 

on  the  water  before  his  plunge,  marking  the  point  aimed 
at,  and  calculating  the  spring-force  needed,  she  let  her- 
self go,  saying:  "If  I  was  so  old  as  we've  supposed — 
could  you  fall  in  love  with  me  ?  Really  fall  in  love  ?  " 

The  Poet  exclaimed :  "  Good  gracious !  But  I  am 
your  brother ! " 

"  Not  my  real  brother ! "  Bella  protested  with  an 
anxious  face.  "  You  aren't !  " 

"  It's  all  in  writing,"  said  the  Poet,  "  every  bit  of  it 
— signed  and  witnessed." 

"  But  not  in  blood !  "  Bella  returned  with  manifest 
alarm.  "You  could  tear  it  up,  and  burn  it — nobody 
knows.  Nobody  would  ever  know.  What?" 

"  I  never  said  a  word." 

"  No.  I  know  you  didn't.  But  do.  Say  you  could. 
For  we  do  love  each  other,  in  one  way,  don't  we?  O 
my!  I'd  fall  in  love  with  you — really  and  truly  in  love, 
if  you'd  only  fall  in  love  with  me." 

Where  is  the  heart  could  withstand  so  soft  an 
advocate  as  this?  The  Poet — always  assuming  the 
requisite  flight  of  time  and  the  monstrous  accumulation 
of  supposes — thought  (without  prejudice)  he  could. 
Yes.  If  Bella  were  an  old  lady,  and  asked  him  very 
nicely,  he  believed,  indeed,  he  might  be  capable  of 
obliging  her.  And  a  look  of  unutterable  triumph  came 
into  Bella's  face,  wonderful  to  see.  For  Leonie  (now 
she  would  tell  the  Poet  why  she  asked  him)  Leonie,  in 
a  little  altercation  the  other  morning,  had  said :  "  Who 
would  marry  her!"  (meaning  Bella).  " Mon  Dieu! 
Only  to  think  of  it!  There  was  no  one  in  the  world 
would  do  such  a  thing !  "  And  Bella  had  been  humble 
at  first,  and  said :  "  Don't  you  think  so,  Leonie  ?  "  until 
Leonie's  certitude  could  be  no  longer  borne.  Then,  and 
not  till  then,  Bella  had  said :  "  But  yes.  They  would — 
somebody  would.  I  know  somebody  that  would,  if  I 


224  BELLA 

asked  him ! "  But  when  Bella  had  come  to  think  over 
it  she  began  to  be  frightened  that  perhaps  Somebody 
wouldn't,  after  all !  "  That  is,  supposing,  of  course, 
that  you  were  an  old  lady,"  the  Poet  interpolated. 

"  Supposing  that  I  was  an  old  lady,"  Bella  acqui- 
esced. "  Of  course !  but  not  such  a  very  old  lady.  I 
don't  mean  that.  Not  any  older  than  mamma — not 
quite  so  old — perhaps  nineteen,  or  twenty.  O  my!  I 
don't  know  how  old.  How  old  do  you  think?  Just 
whenever  you  liked  to  ask  me." 

The  conversation  went  no  further,  and  was  not  re- 
sumed, save  (the  Poet  fancied)  once  or  twice  in  Bella's 
eyes  when  he  found  them  looking  at  him  as  if  they 
meditated  the  word  "  Suppose."  But  he  laughed  later 
with  the  recollection  of  the  colloquy,  and  stored  it  in 
his  closet  of  dearer  memories  where  the  sentimental 
sprigs  of  lavender  and  faint  southernwood  were.  Con- 
science passed  the  cupboard  not  infrequently  on  those 
later  evenings  spent  with  Mrs.  Dysart.  The  fragrance 
of  it,  and  the  knowledge  of  the  dear  relics  it  contained, 
were  in  his  mind  when  he  registered  that  last  resolve  of 
circumspection. 


XXXI 

BUT  meanwhile,  more  is  in  motion  than  the  Poet's 
mind.  Destiny  has  hold  of  him.  He  sees  himself 
taking  charge  of  his  own  fate  and  saying  his  nolo's  and 
volo's  as  if  life  belonged  exclusively  to  the  liver  of  it 
and  were  not  a  mere  perishable  volume  from  the  cir- 
culating library,  subject  to  much  mixed  handling  and 
possession.  Of  those  outer  influences  bearing  upon  him 
he  is  no  more  conscious  than  of  the  computed  weight  of 
atmosphere  beneath  which  mankind  walks.  Quern  deus 
perdere  vult,  prius  dementat.  And  not  less  true  is 
it  that  whom  Rumor  threatens  she  first  makes  deaf 
to  all  her  tongues.  She  comes  so  close  to  the  Poet 
that  her  breath  fans  him,  and  still  he  does  not  suspect 
her  by  the  rankness  of  it.  She  even  follows  him  home, 
and  is  busy  in  the  basement  while  he  eats  his  meals 
above.  Mrs.  Herring  and  her  maids  are  furnished  with 
a  new  stimulus  to  hurry  to  the  window  when  they  think 
the  Poet  likely  to  emerge,  and  Bella's  beauty  is  scanned 
more  closely  and  more  curiously  when  she  visits  the 
lower  regions — though  never  less  kindly,  justice  must 
admit — and  guileless  questions  are  asked  of  her,  to  test 
how  much  she  knows,  and  compare  the  credibility  of 
Rumor  with  the  answers  given,  and  the  frankness  of 
her  lips  and  eyes. 

Even  the  sibilant  and  toothless  Herring  becomes  of 
more  account  in  the  kitchen  and  suffers  less  repression 
through  a  prudence  that  recognizes  him  as  a  possible 
purveyor  of  intelligence.  Nor  is  he  ignorant  of  the 

225 


226  BELLA 

source  of  this  domestic  toleration  and  his  revived  power, 
for  he  will  say,  at  the  least  threat  of  a  rebuke  im- 
pending: "That'll  do— or  I'll  keep  what  I've  heard  to 
myself."  Whereat,  though  Mrs.  Herring  may  retaliate : 
"  What  you've  heard !  "  with  a  great  display  of  scorn. 
"  Dear  me !  It's  likely  folks  will  trust  you  with  a 
deal ! "  she  manages  her  contumely  with  sufficient  judg- 
ment to  save  her  credit,  and  not  gain  a  victory  at  the 
total  cost  of  what  the  vanquished  has  to  tell.  Rumor 
comes  back  at  a  snail's  pace  with  Sir  Henry  Phillimore 
from  the  club,  wrapped  up  in  his  plaid  shawl,  and  that 
dim  and  visionary  figure  (who  is  chiefly  known  to  the 
Poet  as  an  infirm  presence  on  the  stair,  or  a  cough 
in  the  night,  or  a  door,  part  opened,  that  closes  again 
as  the  Poet  passes)  may  be  seen  behind  the  reflections 
of  his  window,  hovering  for  a  sight  of  the  Poet  when 
Bella's  laughter  or  his  own  voice  or  footstep  announces 
him  near  at  hand. 

To  be  sure,  whatever  poison  lurks  within  these 
whispers,  it  passes  here  through  an  indulgent  filter-bed 
and  becomes,  beneath  the  Poet's  temporary  roof,  a  qual- 
ity little  differentiable  from  kindly  inquisitiveness.  Mrs. 
Herring  has  her  living  to  earn;  she  can  make  allow- 
ances for  most  shortcomings  but  her  husband's.  As 
befits  one  brought  up  in  the  service  and  wedded  to 
an  ex-butler,  she  inherits  the  conviction  that  vices  are 
an  appanage  of  gentility,  not  to  be  profaned  by  the 
vulgar,  for  whom  morality  was  specially  invented. 
Young  gentlemen  of  independence  like  the  Poet,  who 
pay  their  weekly  bills  without  scrutinizing  a  single  item, 
and  never  ask  for  the  second  sight  of  a  leg  of  lamb, 
are  no  more  to  be  taxed  on  points  of  virtue  than  they 
are  to  be  challenged  for  their  Parade  ticket  by  dis- 
criminating officials.  Besides,  Mrs.  Herring  and  her 
maids  are  all  avowed  allegiants  of  the  Poet's  personal 


BELLA  227 

charm,  that  admits  no  evil  within  the  radius  of  his 
smile.  Does  not  Louisa  confess  one  night  to  Helen 
(in  reference  to  Mrs.  Dysart)  :  "Ay!  It's  good  to  be 
some  people."  And  does  not  Helen  admit  in  return 
that  she  would  like  to  be  made  love  to,  just  once,  by  a 
real  gentleman  before  she  dies?  And  does  not  Mrs. 
Herring  say :  "  Let  him  be  as  free  as  you  will,  Mr. 
Brandor  is  always  the  gentleman." 

And  what  but  rumor  emboldened  Herring — who 
serves  as  valet  to  the  Poet  and  Sir  Henry  Phillimore — 
to  breathe  into  the  Poet's  ear  a  supplication  for  the 
temporary  loan  of  a  mere  trifle,  now  and  then  ?  "  You 
know  what  women  are,  sir!  She  keeps  me  very  close, 
sir;  very  close.  At  times  I'm  a  little  inclined  to  think 
she  overdoes  it.  Always  thinking  of  the  future.  Lays 
far  too  much  stress  on  that,  sir,  to  my  mind.  I  say 
it's  false  economy.  Isn't  the  present  of  as  much  con- 
sequence as  a  future  we  may  never  live  to  see?  Still 
— she's  a  capable  woman,  and  suits  me  very  well,  sir, 
and  one's  got  to  humor  her  a  little.  If  I  was  to  assert 
myself,  sir,  it  would  only  breed  dissension,  and  what's 
a  'ome  with  that  in  it?  Liberality's  my  fault,  I  know, 
but  it  isn't  a  crime.  I  can  assure  you,  sir,  I  feel  very 
depressed  at  times  when  I  go  about  without  so  much 
as  a  florin  to  lend  a  friend." 

For,  argues  Herring,  the  gentleman  with  spirit 
enough  to  snap  his  fingers  at  propriety,  is  not  likely  to 
prove  a  niggard.  Strict  virtue,  he  has  experienced, 
exerts  a  constrictive  action  on  the  natural  impulses  of 
man;  a  fixed  principle  rarely  goes  arm  in  arm  with 
generosity.  If  the  Poet  had  been  a  sporting  man,  to 
boot,  Herring  would  have  entertained  an  earlier  hope 
of  him,  for  generosity  is  one  of  the  easiest  virtues  (and 
sometimes  the  only  virtue)  practised  by  those  that  make 
no  great  profession  of  any.  Still,  the  ex-butler's  read- 


228  BELLA 

ing  of  humanity  is  not  far  at  fault.  Silver  changes 
hands.  He  even  reads  his  gentleman  so  well  as  to 
venture  to  say  to  him :  "  I've  had  Bucephalus  given 
me  good  for  the  Crosby  Stakes  to-day,  sir.  If  I'd  half 
a  crown  to  spare,  I  should  feel  sorely  tempted  to  invest 
it.  This  is  information,  sir,  not  fancy.  I  haven't  picked 
the  horse  out  of  the  morning's  paper  with  my  finger, 
sir."  It  is  true  Bucephalus  comes  past  the  post  in 
company  with  the  Also's,  and  information  hangs  her 
head  again,  but  gentlemen  whose  pulses  dance  to  the 
possession  of  beauty  are  as  free  with  their  florins  as 
a  cab-driver  of  his  opinions.  They  live  in  a  world  that 
despises  prudence,  and — provided  the  bleeding  is  dis- 
criminate— will  yield  no  end  of  blood  without  demur. 

And  what  but  rumor  draws  the  Baron  to  the  terrace 
steps  half  an  hour  in  advance  of  the  time  when  Mrs. 
Dysart  and  the  Poet  may  be  expected  on  them,  and 
lends  him  the  needful  audacity  to  raise  his  hat  as  if 
he  stood  for  the  Parade,  and  in  its  person  saluted  fame 
and  beauty?  The  salutation  is  too  profound  to  be 
ignored;  too  amusing  to  be  resented — and  yet,  though 
deference  and  flattery  seem  to  be  the  basis  of  it,  the 
act  interprets  but  the  struggle  of  an  aspirant  to  justify 
his  pretentions  and  gain  the  entry  to  an  exclusive 
scandal.  On  the  strength  of  this  salutation — accepted 
rather  than  returned — he  will  speak  hereafter  of  Mrs. 
Dysart  and  her  cavalier  with  an  authority  claiming  far 
deeper  derivation  than  his  own  bow.  He  lets  it  be 
inferred  that  he  knows  Mrs.  Dysart  of  old;  what  he 
fails  to  disclose  concerning  her  seems  withheld  out  of 
honor;  albeit,  to  tell  the  truth,  there  is  little  in  report 
to  which  his  reticence  does  not  give  a  better  sanction 
than  the  worst  of  words.  Mrs.  Dysart  calls  him  "  that 
desperately  wicked  little  man  " ;  Bella,  "  that  funny  little 
man  "  whom  she  thinks  she  rather  likes,  chiefly,  per- 


BELLA  229 

haps,  because  there  is  water  in  his  eyes  when  he  smiles, 
'that  touches  her  unsophisticated  heart,  unskilled,  as  yet, 
in  differentiating  tears.  They  do  not  know  him  as  the 
"  Baron,"  for  their  contact  with  the  Parade  is  not  close 
enough  for  that ;  Mrs.  Dysart's  name  for  him  is  "  Monte 
Cristo."  To  the  Poet  he  figures  fantastic  and  unreal; 
not  in  any  degree  the  stuff  or  substance  of  which  his 
own  destiny  is  compounded,  and  yet,  if  all  its  molecules 
could  be  exhibited,  the  Baron  would  be  visible  among 
the  rest — with  Mrs.  Herring,  and  the  almost  mythical 
Sir  Henry  Phillimore,  and  a  surprising  collection  of 
hundreds  of  unknown  faces — more  than  ever  the  Poet 
could  have  imagined  to  take  interest  in  him. 


XXXII 

THERE  came  to  Spathorpe  at  the  time  when  Rumor 
was  at  her  height,  a  tall  substantial-looking  gentle- 
man in  a  distinguished  gray  felt  hat  with  a  black  band, 
who  might  be  noticed  on  the  Parade  for  a  brief  period. 
He  was  dressed  in  elderly  serge,  trod  with  deliberation 
like  a  man  of  consequence,  smoked  cigars  leisurely,  in 
whose  pale  blue  wake  connoisseurs  dilated  their  nostrils 
with  critical  appreciation,  and  moved  with  an  abstracted 
yet  lenient  and  kindly  interest  in  what  he  saw. 

He  stayed  at  the  Sceptre.  The  letter  R  was  on 
his  leather.  He  signed  the  name  "  Ronsome "  in  the 
visitors'  book,  and  interpreted  it  good-humoredly  to  the 
fair  booking-clerk — whose  forehead  puckered  up  into 
incomprehending  creases  over  its  perusal — spelling  the 
word  whimsically  out  for  her:  R-o-n-s-o-m-e,  and 
pronouncing  it,  "  Runsm — Runsm."  "  Let's  see,"  he 
said,  in  the  atmosphere  of  friendly  smiles  engendered  by 
the  episode,  "  I  believe  you  had  Mr.  Brandor  staying 
here  a  short  while  since  ?  "  The  fair-haired  booking- 
clerk  responded  with  alacrity :  "  Oh,  yes !  "  for  she  had 
not  yet  forgotten  the  sweetness  of  the  Poet's  smile,  that 
her  artifice  sought  occasionally  to  prolong.  "  You  mean 
the  gentleman  that  writes  the  poetry,  don't  you !  But  he 
has  been  left  here  three  weeks  now.  He  came  in  July." 

Without  appearing  to  reflect  on  the  curiousness  of 
his  informant's  idiom,  the  elderly  gentleman  admitted 
the  truth  of  what  it  expressed.  Yes,  Mr.  Brandor  had 

230 


BELLA  231 

moved  into  private  rooms  along  the  Esplanade.  Did 
she  happen  to  know  if  they  were  far  distant  from  the 
hotel?  She  knew,  and  could  assure  him.  Not  at  all. 
Indeed,  they  were  close  at  hand.  She  drew  their  situ- 
ation on  the  visitors'  book  with  the  reverse  end  of  her 
pen,  pitted  all  over  with  tiny  teeth-marks  where  reverie 
or  perplexity  had  bitten  it,  and  the  gentleman  thanked 
her,  saying — or  so  the  booking-clerk  understood  him — 
that  he  must  call  before  leaving  Spathorpe. 

But  if  that  were  his  intention,  it  was  never  fulfilled. 
Less  than  an  hour  afterward,  while  he  took  tea  amid 
the  basket-chairs  on  the  hotel  veranda,  a  landau,  drawn 
by  a  pair  of  bays,  drove  briskly  by.  A  golden-haired 
girl  was  seated  with  her  back  to  the  horses.  The  other 
occupants  were  a  lady  beneath  a  chequered  sunshade, 
who  raised  the  edge  for  a  discreetly  interested  peep  at 
the  hotel  in  passing,  and  a  young  man  in  a  straw  hat. 
The  girl's  face  was  the  only  face  visible  for  more  than 
a  glimpse,  but  something  about  the  poise  of  the  straw 
hat  and  the  debonnair  boy's  figure  recalled  memories  in 
the  gray-bearded  gentleman's  mind.  He  said  to  him- 
self :  "  Surely !  "  and  half  rising  from  his  chair,  took  a 
second  glance  at  the  receding  landau. 

A  military-looking  man,  occupying  two  chairs  a  few 
paces  away,  with  a  newspaper  across  his  knee,  who 
had  begun  to  preen  a  self-opinionated  moustache  with  a 
cigar  between  his  fingers  the  moment  he  caught  sight 
of  Mrs.  Dysart,  misread  the  elderly  visitor's  attention 
for  the  same  character  of  curiosity  as  his  own.  The 
sharpened  look  in  his  eyes  met  and  made  friends  with 
the  gaze  of  the  gentleman  in  blue  serge.  Their  smiles 
engaged  for  a  moment,  and  the  military  man  spoke. 

"  Our  rising  generation !  "  he  said. 

The  gentleman  of  the  name  of  Ronsome,  not  quite 
understanding  the  allusion,  acknowledged  it  with  a 


232  BELLA 

polite  extension  of  his  smile,  and  stroked  his  beard,  ask- 
ing: "Who  is  he?" 

"  The  Byron  of  our  days,"  exclaimed  the  military 
spectator.  "  By  Jove !  And  wants  everybody  to  know 
it,  too.  Always  the  way  with  these  youngsters.  Can't 
keep  their  first  watch  in  their  pockets,  and  wouldn't 
smoke  or  drink  or  play  cards  or  do  half  the  silly  things 
they  do  if  there  wasn't  a  public  to  look  at  'em.  The 
same  with  the  petticoats.  As  soon  as  they  pick  up  a 
fine  woman  they  must  parade  her  in  public  like  a  mare 
round  the  show  ring.  Kick  up  such  a  devil  of  a  fuss 
when  they're  at  their  alphabet;  have  to  spell  out  every- 
thing aloud  to  let  people  know  how  clever  they  are, 
but  when  they've  once  learned  to  read  they  read  with 
their  mouths  shut,  and  keep  things  to  themselves."  He 
blew  two  trumpets  of  smoke  through  his  nostrils  and 
brushed  a  heavy  fall  of  cigar-ash  from  his  waistcoat. 
The  gentleman  of  the  name  of  Ronsome,  still  some- 
what on  the  shady  side  of  all  this  intelligence, 
though  gauging  the  strength  of  sunlight  elsewhere 
caused  by  the  shadow  cast  upon  his  understanding, 
stirred  his  tea  and  asked  carelessly :  "  Let's  see.  What 
is  his  name?" 

"  Brandram,  or  Brandreth,  or  Brentworth,  or  some 
such  name." 

"You  don't  mean  Brandor?" 

"  Brandor.  To  be  sure !  That's  it.  A  poet  or  some- 
thing of  the  sort.  Plenty  of  money  by  all  accounts. 
Must  have,  or  he  wouldn't  be  driving  by  the  side  of 
Isabel  Dysart.  She  hasn't  taken  Cromwell  Lodge  for 
nothing." 

"  And  he's  in  partnership  with  this  woman  ?  " 

"  Unblushingly.  Makes  no  bones  about  it.  Why ! 
You  saw  for  yourself.  I'll  give  him  his  due;  he's  a 
good  judge  of  women.  Did  you  see  her  ?  " 


BELLA  233 

"But  surely,  he's  not  living  openly  with  her?"  Be- 
hind his  smile  the  gentleman  of  the  name  of  Ronsome 
showed  more  incredulousness  than  curiosity. 

The  military  man  laughed,  betraying  a  touch  of 
asthma. 

"  Depends  what  you  mean  by  '  openly,'  "  he  decided. 
"If  being  with  her  at  all  hours  of  the  day,  and  leaving 
her  house  at  all  hours  of  the  night  isn't  '  openly,'  I  don't 
know  where  we  are  to  look  for  a  better  word." 

Ronsome  smiled  with  acquiescence,  but  his  comment 
was :  "  Of  course,  that's  circumstantial.  You'd  scarcely 
condemn  a  man  on  that." 

The  military  man  agreed.  "  True,  true.  Not  on 
that.  But  the  woman's  known.  I  was  up  at  the  club 
last  night.  Sir  Archibald  Elliott  happened  to  look  in. 
Said  it's  common  talk  that  Cohen  was  keeping  her  up 
to  a  few  weeks  ago.  You  know  Lewis  Cohen,  the  dia- 
mond man,  that  went  to  America  last  month,  and  left  a 
letter  in  his  bedroom  saying  his  head  was  going  round, 
and  disappeared.  Wanted  people  to  believe  he'd  done 
away  with  himself,  but  was  seen  a  few  days  later  in 
New  York  with  his  lip  shaved.  Frightful  smash.  Just 
about  the  time  this  woman  came  to  Spathorpe.  It  threw 
her  heart  out  of  gear.  Old  Hayhew  had  to  attend  her. 
Know  him  intimately.  Says  she's  a  charming  woman 
and  makes  a  medical  man's  profession  very  hard.  Egad, 
it's  lucky  for  her  this  fellow's  turned  up,  for  she's  taken 
Cromwell  Lodge  and  done  no  end  at  the  place.  Sent 
a  heap  of  the  old  furniture  into  storage,  and  got  in  her 
own  stuff  from  Hornbeam  and  Tinker's.  Cohen  would 
have  had  to  foot  that  bill  if  he  hadn't  come  on  the 
rocks." 

This,  and  more,  the  military  man  imparted  to  Ron- 
some,  for  he  was  of  the  species  to  whom  talking  is 
a  need,  and  a  good  listener  as  solaceful  as  a  choice  cigar. 
16 


234  BELLA 

It  came  therefore  with  something  of  the  force  of  a 
shock  when  Ronsome  admitted  he  knew  the  Poet — or 
at  least,  had  thought  that  he  knew  him — adding: 

"  But  we  learn  by  living.  Men  change  their  habits 
with  their  clothes.  It's  some  time  since  I  spoke  to  the 
fellow.  I  had  rather  thought  of  calling  on  him,  but 
under  the  circumstances  I  don't  suppose  he'd  care  to 
be  prosed  to  about  old  times.  He  prefers  the  new. 
Besides,  he  seems  developed  into  a  bit  of  a  fool." 

The  military  man  was  visibly  nonplussed.  He  splut- 
tered into  apology  like  a  kettle,  just  come  to  the  boil. 
"Awfully  sorry! 1  beg of  course  you  under- 
stand  had  no  idea not  the  least  desire  to  make 

mischief." 

Ronsome  smiled  in  absolute  forgiveness. 

"  On  the  contrary,  I'm  much  obliged  to  you.  Com- 
mon talk  is  common  talk.  It's  well  to  hear  it,  and  know 
where  one  stands." 

In  which  the  military  man  concurred,  though  his 
assurance  seemed  somewhat  shaken,  and  his  sentences 
showed  a  tendency  to  begin  with  conjunctions  and  words 
of  extenuation  and  contingency.  It  is  also  notable  that 
he  fought  shy  of  the  gentleman  of  the  name  of  Ronsome 
during  the  two  or  three  subsequent  days  of  his  visit, 
and  no  further  conversation  of  the  least  moment  passed 
between  them. 

But  the  elderly  gentleman  with  the  distinguished 
gray  hat  and  black  band,  who  trod  with  such  conse- 
quence and  smoked  such  excellent  cigars,  did  not  lack 
the  use  of  his  eyes,  and  the  military  man's  indiscreet 
confidences  served  as  a  valuable  introduction  to  the 
study  of  the  Poet  and  Mrs.  Dysart.  Several  times  he 
saw  them  on  the  Parade,  contemplating  their  movements 
with  a  keen  but  not  unfriendly  eye  from  some  com- 


BELLA  235 


manding  point  upon  the  balcony,  and  taking  notes  of 
their  reception,  after  which  he  trod  his  leisurely  way, 
wrapped  in  the  fragrance  of  his  cigar  and  the  genial 
introspection  of  his  smile. 


xxxm 

AND  one  day,  very  shortly  after  the  gentleman  of 
the  name  of  Ronsome  had  taken  leave  of  the 
Sceptre,  there  came  a  telegram  for  the  Poet.  Bella 
was  with  him  at  the  time,  for  they  were  just  on  the 
point  of  setting  forth  for  their  preliminary  morning's 
ramble,  and  her  eyes  grew  instantly  large  and  grave 
when  the  missive  was  put  into  his  hand.  She  had  the 
superstitious  dread  of  her  sex  for  those  emblems  of 
trouble  and  catastrophe,  apparitions  from  the  unseen 
world  presaging  sorrow,  and  breathed  the  most  lugu- 
brious "  O  my ! "  as  the  Poet's  finger  tore  a  ragged  path 
through  the  brick- red  envelope.  "  It's  nobody  dead  ?  " 
she  asked  after  a  moment,  in  a  pallid  tone  of  voice.  Her 
thought  flew  to  Daisy,  and  to  tell  the  truth,  this  name 
was  the  first  to  flash  across  the  Poet's  mind  when  he 
took  the  telegram.  But  his  eyebrows,  as  he  read,  illus- 
trated amusement  more  than  concern. 

"  No,  Mother  Hubbard,"  he  answered.  "  It's  no- 
body dead,  thank  goodness.  It's  somebody  very  much 
alive — O,  like  the  mussels  the  man  was  singing  last 
night." 

"  O  my !  "  exclaimed  Bella;  a  radiant  "  O  my!  "  this 
time,  beaming  gladness  and  relief.  "  Some  one  coming 
here?" 

"  Yes." 

"To  Spathorpe?" 

"To  Spathorpe." 

"  When  ?     I  hope  soon.     O,  say  it's  to-day." 

236 


BELLA  237 

"  It  is  to-day." 

"  O  my !  I  guessed  that,  didn't  I !  How  lovely. 
Whoever  is  it  ?  Stop !  Let  me  guess  that,  too.  Some- 
body I  know  ?  " 

"  Somebody  you  know." 

"Daisy?    It  can't  be.     Is  it?" 

"  No,  not  Daisy." 

"No.  I  thought  it  couldn't  be.  That  wasn't  the 
guess.  Wait  a  bit.  Don't  tell  me.  Was  it  Vic?" 

"  No,  not  Vic." 

"  No.  And  that  wasn't  the  real  guess.  Let  me  think 
ever  so  hard.  Show  me  your  eyes.  Yes.  Ah!  You 
winked !  Now  I  know.  Is  it is  it " 

"Who  is  it,"  asked  the  Poet,  "that  looks  over  his 
pince-nez  like  this,  and  says :  '  Well,  well !  I  say  no 
more!'?" 

"  Mr.  Pendlip ! "  cries  Bella,  clapping  her  hands  to- 
gether. "  Mr.  Pendlip.  I'm  sure  it  is.  Is  it  ?  Am  I 
right?" 

"  Yes." 

"  O  my !  That  was  the  real  guess.  I  guessed  that, 
didn't  I!  I  knew  I  could." 

And  then,  having  been  admitted,  as  it  were,  by  a 
side  door  to  the  truth,  ran  around  to  the  front,  where 
she  saw  the  full  wonder  of  it,  and  exclaimed  raptur- 
ously :  "  No,  never !  Not  to-day !  Not  so  soon !  It 
can't  be!" 

But  the  poet  put  the  telegram  into  her  fingers,  and 
Bella  read  it  with  proud  importance,  for,  of  course,  to 
be  made  partner  to  such  a  communication  as  this,  is 
to  occupy  a  very  exalted  place  in  the  Privy  Council 
of  Friendship.  Twice  Bella  read  the  message  through, 
aloud,  and  her  delight  and  wonder  grew.  To  think  that 
the  mighty  Mr.  Pendlip,  whose  august  tread  through 
the  corridors  of  her  mind  had  made  imagination  trem- 


238  BELLA 

ble  with  pleasurable  awe — to  think  he  was  about  to 
burst  the  bondage  of  investing  fancy,  and  become  sub- 
stance and  reality  all  in  a  moment,  like  the  mayfly. 
What  a  prospect!  What  thrilling  unanticipated  joy! 

"  O  my !  "  said  Bella,  taking  the  altitude  of  the  occa- 
sion by  means  of  her  familiar  words.  "  I  can  scarcely 
believe  it.  Can  you  ?  This  very  afternoon.  And  shall  I 
really  see  him  ?  " 

"  Indeed  you  shall." 

"And  speak  to  him?" 

"  If  you  like." 

"  I  do  like.  I  would  love  it.  Ever  so  much.  Do  you 
think  Mr.  Pendlip  would  like,  too?" 

"Think  isn't  the  word." 

"What  is  the  word?" 

"  It's  two  words." 

"  What  two  words  are  those  ?  " 

"  Perfectly  certain." 

"Are  you?  Really?  Perfectly  certain?  Of  course, 
it  isn't  as  if  we  didn't  know  each  other,  is  it ! "  Bella 
urged.  "  We  know  each  other  as  well  as  well  by  letter, 
don't  we!  And  I  mustn't  forget  to  ask  him  how  Daisy 
is,  and  Mrs.  Pendlip,  too.  Perhaps  Daisy  will  have 
sent  me  a  message  by  him.  I'd  love  it  if  she  has. 
What  message  will  it  be?  Can  you  guess?  Not  in  the 
least?  Oh,  tell  me  lots  of  things  about  her  and  all  of 
them,  now  Mr.  Pendlip's  coming." 

To  all  these  raptures  the  Poet  freely  responded, 
ringing  to  them  like  a  wine-glass  under  the  sung  note; 
but  whether  he  shared  the  girl's  joy,  or  hailed  his  erst- 
while guardian's  coming  with  quite  the  gladness  shown 
is  perhaps  open  to  doubt.  Mr.  Pendlip's  telegram  offered 
no  explanation  of  this  hurried  visit;  it  merely  stated  a 
fact,  a  time,  and  a  wish.  The  sender  was  on  his  way 
to  Spathorpe.  He  would  arrive  at  half-past  four.  And 


BELLA  239 

the  wish  was  crystallized  into  the  two  plain  words, 
"  Meet  me."  In  all  of  which  there  was  nothing  extraor- 
dinary; yet  it  is  the  weak  spot  shows  the  sharpness  of 
the  wind,  and  though  the  Poet  has  choice  of  a  dozen 
reasons  to  account  for  Pendlip's  coming,  something  un- 
easy in  his  conscience  seems  to  suspect  them  all  and 
gnaw  at  a  reason  beyond.  The  query  grows  into  a  sort 
of  burden  that  he  finds  himself  reiterating  every  now 
and  then: 

"  I  wonder  what  old  Pendlip  wants ; 
I  wonder  what  he  wants.    .    .    ." 

He  is  stirred  with  curiosity  to  the  extinction  of 
natural  gladness.  Pendlip  assumes  the  property  of  a 
conundrum,  that  is  to  be  solved  at  half-past  four  o'clock 
this  day,  and  still  perplexes  him  into  the  present  pro- 
pounding of  it,  though  he  is  aware  no  answer  of  his 
own  can  satisfy  his  curiosity  or  rest  his  doubts.  What- 
ever natural  explanation  he  may  set  upon  this  telegram 
and  Pendlip's  coming,  the  query  always  confronts  him: 
"  But  why  didn't  he  send  a  letter  ?  Couldn't  he  have 
written  last  night?  What's  bringing  him  off  in  such  a 

hurry  ?  "    "  It  can't  be "  he  begins  incredulously,  and 

breaks  off  at  that,  and  will  not  admit  a  probability  so 
wild,  though  it  shows  tenaciously  through  all  his  more 
reasonable  hypotheses.  He  believes  in  the  hypothesis 
no  more  than  he  believes  in  ghosts,  and  yet — in  his  pres- 
ent darkness — it  has  a  tendency  to  haunt  him;  for  men 
who  disclaim  all  faith  in  specters  by  day  find  somewhat 
less  comfort  from  the  lack  of  it  by  night,  when  strange 
things  happen  for  which  mere  scepticism  can  give  no 
adequate  account.  The  best  they  can  do  is  to  counterfeit 
the  presentment  of  courage,  swagger  in  face  of  their 
own  fears,  and  try  and  attain  to  carelessness  through 
mimicry  of  it.  The  Poet,  for  instance,  after  his  first 


240  BELLA 

puzzled  perusal  of  the  telegram,  treats  the  matter  with 
exuberance,  asking  Bella  whether  he  ever  mentioned 
to  her  in  the  course  of  conversation  that  Mr.  Pendlip 
has  a  wooden  leg?  Bella  says:  "No!  Never!  "  where- 
upon the  Poet  expresses  his  pleasure  to  find  that  he 
has  always  spoken  the  truth  of  Mr.  Pendlip  and  ex- 
horts Bella  to  cultivate  this  priceless  quality  and  speak 
of  her  friends  as  she  finds  them. 

Yet  the  Poet's  rejected  hypothesis  lies  nearest  to 
fact,  and  this  telegram  may  be  taken  to  signify  that 
Report  has  at  length  been  checked  in  her  career  like  a 
runaway  cow,  and  is  being  driven  dangerously  back 
upon  the  Poet's  plate-glass  happiness.  Later,  there  will 
be  a  crash,  for  he  does  not  even  yet  suspect  that  such 
a  beast  is  at  large — still  less  that  kindly  hands  are  urging 
her  toward  him — and  so  his  large  and  candid  windows 
remain  unprotected  by  a  single  shutter. 


XXXIV 

ONLY  the  day  before,  Mr.  Pendlip  had  paid  for  two 
luncheons  at  his  club,  and  borne  home  afterward 
the  fateful  intelligence.  His  emotion  was  a  business 
man's  emotion,  flowing  like  a  frozen  river  beneath  its 
frigid  crust  of  ice.  Now  and  again  the  ice  cracked  and 
his  visage  showed  a  smile;  he  laughed,  but  the  laugh 
was  a  gloomy  fissure,  leading  into  watery  depths  below. 
Of  all  offences,  folly — that  is  itself  the  lightest — seems 
the  hardest  to  forgive.  Irrevocable  faults  we  pardon; 
but  active  follies  do  not  rouse  in  us  emotions  deep 
enough  for  clemency.  They  touch  impatience,  but  fall 
short  of  magnanimity.  Here  was  the  boy  to  whom 
Richard  Pendlip  had  stood  second  father;  who  had 
flinched  in  days  gone  by  before  his  necessary  wrath; 
who  had  never  lied,  nor  played  the  traitor  to  his  own 
honor.  Such  a  boy — save  for  the  lack  of  finance  in 
him — as  Pendlip  might  have  desired  for  his  son;  high- 
spirited,  sensible,  gentle,  truthful,  possessed  of  a  dis- 
position lofty  enough  to  be  called  noble,  but  for  a 
certain  carelessness  in  it;  a  boy  on  whom  care  had 
been  expended,  and  anger  when  requisite;  and  prides 
based  and  aspirations  reared.  And  now — to  be  throwing 
his  character  to  the  four  winds  as  a  quack-doctor  flings 

abroad  his  leaflets What  folly!     What  senseless 

folly! 

As  he  walked  up  the  carriage  drive  of  his  Dulwich 
home — the  carriage  drive  that  Bella's  fancy  had  paced 
so  many  times  toward  the  peristyle  she  knew  so  well — 

241 


242  BELLA 

the  sound  of  its  pebbles  awoke  the  echoes  of  years. 
He  saw  the  Poet  as  a  pale-faced  child  at  play  in  his 
first  shrimp-like  black  knickerbockers — the  badge  of  his 
bereavement — that  Pendlip  could  have  worn  for  a  mit- 
ten on  his  own  large  hand,  and  the  contrast  forced  an 
interjection  from  him.  "  In  Spathorpe !  "  he  exclaimed, 
with  as  much  impatience  to  himself  as  though  he  stood 
delinquent  to  his  words.  "  Of  all  places  in  the  world ! 
Bang  under  everybody's  nose.  Was  there  nowhere  else 
he  might  have  made  a  fool  of  himself  ?  "  And  he  looked 
forward  unpleasantly  to  the  feminine  consternation 
when  Mrs.  Pendlip  should  gaze  upon  the  altered  features 
of  this  cherished  boy.  Unemotional  men  feel  other 
people's  emotion  keenly,  the  more  for  not  sharing  it, 
perhaps.  "  The  fellow's  been  spoiled !  "  he  decided,  as 
he  singled  his  latch-key  from  a  jingling  bunch,  and  blew 
on  it  vehemently  to  dislodge  supposititious  dust  and  ex- 
press impatience.  "  He's  had  his  own  way  in  every- 
thing. We're  all  to  blame.  Poetry's  not  the  stuff  to 
make  men  of."  However,  in  his  own  hall  he  tapped  the 
barometer  with  customary  cheerfulness,  blew  out  his  lips 
in  mute  simulation  of  whistling — though  his  head  con- 
tained not  a  single  tune — and  sauntered  into  the  room 
across  the  hall  through  whose  door  came  sounds  of 
desultory  music  and  conversation. 

A  girl  whose  face  and  hair  were  both  of  the  same 
light  obliterative  shade,  but  who — had  she  been  less 
pallid — might  have  made  claims  on  beauty  of  the  deli- 
cate and  transitory  sort,  was  seated  at  a  boudoir  grand 
in  the  far  corner  of  the  room,  near  the  conservatory. 
Traces  of  her  recent  illness  lay  still  upon  her  waxen 
cheek,  and  in  the  fragile  whiteness  of  her  fingers.  On 
a  chair  by  her  side,  too,  was  a  shawl,  as  if  for  use 
when  she  moved  about  the  house.  She  was  turning  the 
pages  of  a  bound  Chopin  listlessly  with  her  right  hand, 


BELLA  243 

and  picking  out  occasional  bass  passages  with  her  left 
—though  her  face  was  turned  toward  the  center  of  the 
room,  where,  in  the  cool  depth  of  a  cretonne-covered 
chair,  Mrs.  Pendlip  knitted  a  woolen  comforter  for  one 
or  other  of  her  autumn  beneficiaries,  stopping  from  time 
to  time  to  probe  her  cheek  reflectively  with  a  foot  of 
shining  steel,  and  repose  a  look  of  maternal  care  upon 
her  daughter's  profile;  or,  when  the  latter  turned  in 
discovery  of  the  look,  to  smile  and  exchange  words 
with  her.  Close  to  the  elder  woman's  elbow  the  after- 
noon tea-table  was  spread,  and  there  were  evidences 
that  the  meal  had  been  already  taken.  An  empty  cup 
with  crumbs  in  the  saucer  stood  upon  the  pianoforte 
desk;  the  spirit  lamp  beneath  the  silver  kettle  was  ex- 
tinguished; the  layers  of  fine-cut  bread  and  butter  were 
reduced.  At  Mr.  Pendlip's  entrance  the  knitting-needles 
were  dropped  into  the  worker's  lap.  His  wife  did  not 
look  around,  but  said :  "  Richard,"  and  adjusted  her  spec- 
tacles for  the  sight  of  him  when  he  should  pass  her 
chair.  The  girl  laid  one  hand  on  the  pianoforte  stool, 
and  leaned  out  beyond  the  keyboard  with  a  smile  of 
greeting. 

"  No,  no,"  her  father  protested  when  he  saw  her 
close  the  pages  of  the  book  and  make  as  though  she 
would  desert  the  piano.  "  Go  on,  Daisy.  I  don't  want 
to  stop  you." 

The  girl  said :    "  I  was  just  finishing,  father." 

Her  mother  interpolated :  "She  must  not  tire  herself, 
Richard." 

"  Of  course  not.  To  be  sure,  to  be  sure.  Don't  tire 
yourself,  Daisy." 

The  girl  disclaimed  fatigue,  and  Pendlip  asked  her 
how  she  was  feeling  now.  "  Stronger,  are  you  ? " 
"That's  right,  that's  right,"  he  exclaimed,  when  she 
assured  him: 


244  BELLA 

"  Heaps  stronger.  I'm  ready  for  Spathorpe  any 
time,  now,"  and  coughed  in  saying  it. 

"  Not  quite,  dear ! "  Mrs.  Pendlip  cautioned  her, 
restrainingly.  "  We  mustn't  run  the  risk  of  further 
cold.  It  would  be  most  unwise.  Another  week,  dear, 
when  we  see  how  you're  going  on." 

The  girl  made  a  mock  face  of  resistance  to  authority 
and  confessed :  "  I  hate  being  an  invalid.  It's  so  silly ; 
particularly  at  this  time  of  the  year.  In  the  winter 
it's  something  to  do.  Spathorpe  will  be  over  by  the 
time  we  get  there.  Rupert  says  it's  the  tennis  tourna- 
ment this  week,  and  after  that  the  season  tumbles  to 
pieces." 

Pendlip  did  not  espouse  the  topic  of  Spathorpe,  nor 
warm  to  his  daughter's  suggestion  that  she  felt  fit 
enough  for  the  mixed  doubles.  "  Is  there  a  cup  of  tea 
for  me,  Rachel  ?  "  he  asked  his  wife,  who  dropped  her 
knitting  and  adjusted  her  spectacles  with  a  cry  of  self- 
rebuke  : 

"  To  be  sure  there  is,  Richard.  I  never  thought. 
But  the  tea  must  be  clay  cold  by  now.  We  did  not 
know  when  to  expect  you.  Let  Daisy  ring  for  some 
more " 

Pendlip  restrained  her.  "  Not  on  my  account.  Just 
half  a  cup.  I  don't  mind  how  cold  or  black  it  is.  No 
sugar,  Daisy."  He  picked  about  among  the  dishes. 
"  What  are  these  ?  Sweet,  are  they  ?  No,  let's  have 
some  bread  and  butter.  I'm  not  hungry."  He  clapped 
two  of  the  slices  together,  face  to  face,  and  bit  them 
with  manly  amplitude,  walking  to  and  fro  and  saying 
"Hm's"  and  "  Ha's "  through  the  muffle  of  what  he 
ate.  The  conversation  sustained  itself  by  means  of  their 
brief  prosaic  phrases  common  to  those  whose  daily  lives 
are  so  intimate  as  to  render  speech  superfluous.  Pendlip 
recorded  the  heat  in  the  city  and  enumerated  sundry 


BELLA  245 

meetings  with  individuals  known  to  him.  "  Saw  so-and- 
so  at  Victoria  " ;  some  one  else  near  Threadneedle  Street. 

After  awhile,  when  his  interest  in  mastication  flagged 
and  he  pronounced  himself  at  the  end  of  his  meal,  Daisy 
said  she  would  go  to  her  room  and  write  to  Rupert  be- 
fore the  twilight  fell.  She  had  not  answered  his  letter 
yet.  Mrs.  Pendlip  adjusted  her  spectacles  again — an  act 
apparently  as  essential  to  speech  as  to  sight,  since  she 
rarely  spoke  or  looked  but  that  she  did  it  first — and 
approved  the  decision. 

"  I  am  sure  Rupert  will  be  very  anxious  to  hear  from 
you.  It  must  be  rather  lonely  for  him,  poor  boy,  all 
this  time.  He  will  be  very  glad  to  have  us  there." 

"  I  don't  suppose  he  minds — much.  He  has  made 
friends  already,"  Daisy  retorted. 

"  That  funny  little  girl  seems  always  with  him.  Who 
is  she,  I  wonder  ?  "  Mrs.  Pendlip  remarked  in  a  low 
but  emphatic  voice.  "  Of  course — she  is  only  a  child. 
It  is  not  a  serious  friendship." 

Pendlip,  walking  to  and  fro,  made  the  elaborate 
mouth  movements  of  a  man  at  the  conclusion  of  a 
repast  in  his  own  house;  screwed  his  lips;  clapped  his 
hands  to  the  solid  portions  of  him,  affecting  an  oblivi- 
ousness  of  the  conversation.  Not  till  Daisy  threw  the 
shawl  around  her  shoulders  and  left  the  room  did  he 
enter  speech  again,  but  his  absorption  carried  no  new 
character  or  special  significance,  for  often  he  brought 
business  into  the  drawing-room  in  this  guise,  and  after 
a  few  preliminary  words  would  be  lost  to  the  voices  of 
his  family,  breathing  his  financial  fee-fo-fums  to  him- 
self, and  only  being  drawn  to  the  portcullis  of  this  im- 
pregnable castle  by  a  double  summons  from  without. 
But  the  moment  the  door  closed  on  the  wrapped  form 
of  his  daughter,  Pendlip  stopped  before  the  fireplace, 
his  lips  compressed,  the  space  between  his  legs  shaped 


246  BELLA 

to  a  pyramid,  his  hands  clapped  resolutely  to  his  bul- 
warks. For  awhile  he  was  silent,  but  the  something 
momentous  in  his  attitude  reached  and  touched  the  wife 
as  with  a  hand.  She  let  fall  her  needles  anew,  rectified 
her  glasses,  and  turned  a  quick  glance  toward  the  tower- 
ing figure,  with  the  utterance  of  her  husband's  name. 
"Richard?" 


XXXV 

4  '  T  LUNCHED  with  Ronsome  at  the  club,  to-day," 

A  Pendlip  began.  "  He's  just  had  a  week-end  at 
Spathorpe.  Told  me  a  little  news." 

Something  in  the  dry  calculation  of  her  husband's 
tone  prepared  her — as  he  had  intended  it  should — for 
some  unwelcome  intelligence.  She  scanned  his  face  to 
read  its  tidings,  a  knitting-needle  laid  apprehensively 
across  both  her  lips. 

"About  Rupert?" 

"About  Rupert." 

"There's  nothing  the  matter  with  him,  Richard? 
The  boy's  not  ill?" 

"  Never  better  in  his  life  by  all  accounts.  Only  mak- 
ing a  fool  of  himself.  That's  all.  With  a  woman." 

She  cried :  "  Richard !  "  blankly,  looking  at  him  for 
awhile  as  if  his  presence  were  unfamiliar.  Then  a  fear 
dawned  upon  her.  "  The  boy's  not  going  to  be  married  ? 
Don't  tell  me  he's  married  already." 

"  I  am  sorry  I  can  tell  you  nothing  so  reputable." 

"  You  don't  mean  to  say " 

"  Unfortunately,  there's  nothing  else  for  me  to 
mean." 

He  spread  his  hands,  palms  outward,  to  the  empty 
grate,  as  if  to  catch  the  comfort  from  a  fire,  and  began 
to  unfold  the  death  certificate  of  the  Poet's  virtue  from 
his  puckered  lips.  His  language  warmed  with  what  he 
had  to  impart;  now  and  again  he  slipped  an  expletive 
into  his  words.  Mrs.  Pendlip,  long  habited  to  these 

247 


248  BELLA 

venial  warps  and  knots  in  masculine  nature,  accepted 
them  from  her  husband  almost  devoutly,  like  pulpit  im- 
precations sanctified  by  place  and  usage,  alive  only  to 
the  substance  of  what  she  heard,  breathing  her  hus- 
band's name  as  a  vehicle  for  incredulity,  articulating 
rapid  double  T's. 

"  I  can't  believe  it,  Richard,"  she  reiterated.  "  It  is 
not  like  Rupert.  Rupert  would  never  condescend  to 
such  a  thing.  There  must  be  some  mistake.  It  can't 
be  true.  Why !  He's  only  a  boy !  " 

"  Past  his  majority !  "  Pendlip  exclaimed.  "  And  you 
call  him  a  boy!  Growth's  a  thing  you  women  never 
understand.  If  you'd  ever  known  James  Ronsome  in 
his  school  jacket,  you'd  say  he  was  a  boy  to  this  day. 
Rupert's  at  the  very  age  to  play  the  fool — when  a 
fellow's  just  shaken  loose  from  authority,  as  Ronsome 
says,  and  hasn't  yet  reached  his  own  wisdom.  And 
Ronsome's  not  the  man  to  pick  up  cock-and-bull  stories. 
He  only  came  back  from  Spathorpe  on  Tuesday — saw 
the  thing  with  his  own  eyes.  Says  it's  as  plain  as  a 
pikestaff,  the  talk  of  the  place." 

Mrs.  Pendlip  shook  her  head  in  melancholy  pledge  of 
faith  to  the  boy.  "  He  must  have  been  led  into  it.  He 
would  never  have  done  such  a  thing  by  himself."  Add- 
ing: "Who  is  she?  If  she's  anything  very  dreadful, 
don't  tell  me,  Richard.  I  think  I'd  rather  not  know. 
Poor  Daisy!  Poor  Daisy!  To  come  just  after  her  ill- 
ness, too." 

"  Ronsome  tells  me  her  name's  Dysart.  The  wife  of 
an  army  man." 

"  Wife !  "  cried  Mrs.  Pendlip,  her  lips  recoiling  from 
the  title  with  as  much  alarm  as  if  it  had  been  an  appari- 
tion. "  But  her  husband's  not  living,  Richard !  You 
don't  mean  there's  going  to  be  a  scandal  ?  " 

"  Going  to  be !  "  Pendlip  retorted.    "  There  is!    Ron- 


BELLA  249 

some  says  he's  heard  that  Dysart  is  out  in  the  Argen- 
tine somewhere.  She's  a  married  woman  with  a  big 
fine  daughter.  That's  the  girl  that's  always  hanging 
round  him,  and  writes  postscripts  at  the  foot  of  his 
letters.  Damn  it ! "  he  exclaimed,  as  the  preposterous- 
ness  of  the  act  enlarged  under  the  eye  of  indignation, 
"  But  Rupert  might  have  played  a  cleaner  game  than 
this.  What  right  has  he  to  mix  us  up  in  his  tom- 
fooleries ?  Here  I've  been  sending  our  messages  all  this 

time  to  the  daughter  of  a Good  Lord !  And  there's 

Daisy  just  going  to  do  the  same  if  we  don't  stop  her. 
What's  to  be  done?  What's  to  be  said  to  her?  We 
can't  go  to  Spathorpe  now,  on  any  consideration.  That's 
out  of  the  question.  Ronsome  tells  me  their  photo- 
graphs are  stuck  up  in  every  show-frame  in  the  place. 
They  drive  about  in  a  job-master's  carriage  and  pair. 
He's  with  her  the  whole  time,  and  the  policemen  see 
her  letting  him  out  of  her  door  in  the  small  hours. 
Damme !  Does  he  mean  to  ruin  himself  ?  " 

He  let  his  indignation  have  vent  for  awhile,  disgorg- 
ing what  Ronsome  had  confided  over  the  luncheon  table. 
Several  times  he  made  use  of  the  familiar  formula: 
"  Well,  well !  I  say  no  more  "  that  served  but  as  the 
starting  point  for  a  fresh  disquisition.  What  he  did 
to  ease  himself  by  means  of  anger,  his  wife  did  through 
the  medium  of  a  more  temperate  sorrow,  saying: 

"  Poor  boy !  Poor  boy !  "  "  Don't  be  hard  on  him, 
Richard."  "  Dreadful,  dreadful !  "  Only  when  her  lips 
touched  Mrs.  Dysart  did  indignation  flash  upon  them. 
"  A  married  woman.  Monstrous !  If  she'd  been  a 
widow  without  encumbrance,  or — or  anything  else — and 
that's  terrible  enough.  But  a  married  woman,  with  a 
grown-up  child.  To  take  advantage  of  a  mere  boy! 
Has  she  no  conscience?  Does  she  never  think  he  may 
have  friends,  and  others,  dear  to  him  ?  or  how  she  would 
17 


250  BELLA 

feel  if  he  were  a  son  of  hers,  and  she  some  other 
woman  ?  " 

"  You  were  always  a  girl,  Rachel,"  Pendlip  blurted 
out,  with  an  impatience  not  devoid  of  kindness  and  even 
of  admiration."  There  are  only  two  genders,  and  yet 
you  know  neither.  When  it's  men,  you  talk  as  if  it 
was  women;  and  when  it's  women,  you  expect  them 
to  behave  like  angels.  Well,  well !  "  He  did  not  add : 
"  I  say  no  more,"  though  the  conclusion  seemed  in- 
ferred. "  It's  no  use  crying  over  spilled  milk.  What's 
done  can't  be  undone.  The  thing  is,  what's  to  be  done 
now?  Are  we  to  shut  our  eyes,  or  are  we  to  do  some- 
thing? Which  is  it  to  be?" 

Mrs.  Pendlip  reiterated :  "  Shut  our  eyes !  "  denounc- 
ing the  idea  by  mere  inflection.  "  It  is  not  my  husband 
that  asks  such  a  thing.  There  can  be  no  doubt.  Of 
course,  we  must  do  something.  We  must  help  him, 
Richard.  At  once." 

Pendlip  posed  a  grim  "  How  ?  " 

"  You  will  have  to  write  to  him  without  delay.  To- 
night." 

"And  what  say?" 

"  Appeal  to  his  better  nature.  He  has  one  still.  Bid 
him  renounce  this  wicked  folly.  He  had  better  come 
home  immediately.  All  shall  be  forgiven.  Remind  him 
of  Daisy.  For  her  sake  we  must  do  something.  The 
girl  is  devoted  to  him;  you  know  what  we  have  always 
hoped.  Of  course — not  a  word  must  be  breathed  to  her. 
It  would  distress  her  terribly,  Richard,  perhaps  induce  a 
misguided  sense  of  independence.  Particularly  after 
her  illness.  She  needs  all  her  strength." 

While  she  spoke  her  husband  slowly  paced  the  floor, 
fitting  his  feet  precisely  to  the  pattern  of  the  carpet, 
with  his  hands  clamped  behind  him,  and  his  lips  puck- 
ered like  a  canvas  purse.  The  fact  was,  another  in- 


BELLA  251 

fluence  overrode  his  own,  and  that  influence  Ronsome's. 
All  men — or,  to  render  the  statement  less  susceptible 
of  contradiction,  most  men — have  a  sphere  in  the  realm 
of  their  nature  which  comes  readier  under  another's 
rule  than  their  own;  a  department  of  mind  where  their 
will  governs  less  absolutely,  and  submits  with  little  re- 
sistance to  the  sway  of  another.  In  the  dominion  of 
facts  and  figures,  Richard  Pendlip  was  an  autocrat, 
valuing  few  men's  opinions  before  his  own.  In  the 
dominion  of  the  humanities,  though  his  visage  showed 
no  change,  his  tread  grew  less  authoritative.  Left  to 
himself  in  such  a  matter  as  this,  he  might  have  blus- 
tered aimlessly  like  a  March  wind,  or  developed  a  wrath 
more  gusty  than  discreet.  But  the  influence  of  the 
luncheon  table  dominated  and  disciplined  him.  He  re- 
posed secretly  on  the  wisdom  of  Ronsome.  It  was 
Ronsome — once  his  indignation  had  subsided — that 
spoke  through  him;  whose  words  he  quoted  senten- 
tiously,  as  he  might  do  the  political  pronouncements  of 
his  morning  paper,  merely  lending  the  force  and  con- 
viction of  his  own  tongue  to  opinions  already  stamped 
and  stereotyped. 

"  I  asked  Ronsome,"  he  told  his  wife,  "  '  what's  to 
be  done  ?  '  He  said :  '  Good  Lord,  man !  Don't  mis- 
take my  motive  in  telling  you  all  this.  I'm  just  giving 
you  the  information  for  what  it's  worth,  because 
knowledge  is  as  useful  as  a  little  small  change  in  the 
pocket  at  times.'  '  But  surely  we've  got  to  do  some- 
thing, Ronsome ! '  I  said.  '  We  can't  let  a  thing  like 
this  go  on  and  take  no  means  to  stop  it.  We  are  the 
boy's  nearest.  You  can't  deny  we  have  a  duty.'  '  I 
don't  want  to  deny  it,'  says  he.  '  But  duty  isn't  always 
wisdom.  Life's  full  of  little  things  that  a  wise  man 
does  well  to  pretend  he  hasn't  seen.  If  you  were  an 
old  woman,  Pendlip — which,  thank  God,  you're  not — 


252  BELLA 

you'd  rush  off  without  a  moment's  reflection  and  stir 
up  the  water  until  you  could  see  nothing  for  mud, 
that  would  take  Heaven  knows  how  long  to  settle.  And 
when  you'd  mulled  the  whole  business  hopelessly,  and 
the  fellow  was  acting  the  double  fool  out  of  sheer  an- 
noyance and  silly  resentment,  you  might  salve  your  con- 
science with :  "  At  least  I've  done  my  duty."  '  '  What ! ' 
I  tell  him.  *  Do  you  want  us  to  sit  with  our  fingers 
in  our  mouth  and  watch  the  boy  go  headlong  to  ruin, 
Ronsome ? '  'I  don't  want  you  to  put  your  fingers  in 
your  mouth  at  all,'  says  he,  '  unless  it's  any  satisfaction 
to  you.  But  at  least  they're  safer  there  than  plunged 
into  somebody  else's  stew  that's  a  damned  sight  too 
hot  for  them,  and  perhaps  upsetting  the  whole  dish.  So 
long  as  you  ask  my  advice — and  I  take  it  you  are  ask- 
ing my  advice — I  say,  be  quite  sure  the  stew's  had 
time  to  cool.  It's  no  good  preaching  reformation  to  a 
drunken  man;  you've  got  to  wait  till  he's  given  over 
hiccoughing,  and  has  a  head  on  him  that  conduces 
to  reform.  If  this  fellow  were  a  son  of  yours — which 
he's  not;  and  if  he  were  dependent  on  you — which 
he's  not ;  or,  if  he  were  in  any  way  under  your  authority 
— which  he's  not,  then  your  course  might  be  clear.  You 
could  stop  his  supplies  and  starve  off  the  woman.  You'd 
soon  be  rid  of  her.  But  it  seems  to  me  you've  no  power 
beyond  what  he's  willing  to  give  you.  You  can  only 
appeal  to  his  sentiments;  recall  the  duty  and  obedience 
he  used  to  give  you  once  upon  a  time.  And  don't  think 
he  hasn't  considered  these  things  for  himself.  When 
a  man's  thrown  convention  to  the  wind,  and  follows  his 
own  sweet  way  in  the  face  of  the  world ;  nails  his  colors 
to  the  mast;  you  may  be  sure  he's  made  a  strong  de- 
cision first.  It  may  be  a  fool's  decision,  and  some  day 
he'll  repent  it — but  that's  the  hardest  decision  to  over- 
come. You  don't  suppose  you  can  argue  any  stronger 


BELLA  253 

than  the  man's  own  decency.  If  that's  gone,  what  are 
you  appealing  to  ?  Besides,  he's  weighed  your  wrath 
already,  and  counted  the  cost  of  it.  If  he'd  stood  in 
the  least  awe  of  your  authority  he  would  never  have 
let  this  cat  out  of  the  bag.  But  she's  out  now,  and 
there's  no  putting  her  back  again.  In  fact,  it  looks  to 
me  as  if  he  doesn't  'want  her  back.  He's  let  her  out 
on  purpose — Lord  knows  what  for.  He  may  be  think- 
ing himself  the  apostle  of  a  new  liberty,  for  anything 
I  know,  or  something  equally  heroic  and  ridiculous.  I 
don't  think  it's  depravity.'" 

Mrs.  Pendlip  contributed  an  emphatic  "  I  am  very 
sure  it  is  not.  Very,  very  sure.  He  is  more  sinned 
against  than  sinning,  Richard.  I  have  a,  feeling  that  tells 

me " 

Pendlip  did  not  wait  to  hear  what  it  told.  He  was 
busy  with  Ronsome;  recalling  the  discussion  of  the 
lunch  table.  That  gentleman's  imperturbable  compo- 
sure soothed  and  at  the  same  time  vexed  him.  It  was 
counsel  in  the  guise  of  a  cryptogram;  a  thing  like  a 
doctor's  prescription,  whose  authority  seems  the  more 
absolute  because  incomprehensible  and  beyond  chal- 
lenge by  the  laity;  and  yet  troubles  the  would-be  de- 
cipherer to  inquire  what  these  inscrutable  symbols  are 
in  which  his  well-being  lies  hid. 

"  I  said  to  Ronsome,"  Pendlip  continued,  with  his 
pince-nez  insecurely  hooked  on  the  fleshy  prominence 
of  his  nose — where  the  glasses  glinted  at  his  words  like 
the  wings  of  a  dragon-fly — "  I  said  to  Ronsome :  '  But, 
look  here,  Ronsome.  If  you  were  me,  and  the  case 
were  yours,  what  would  you  do  ?  ' ! 

"  What  was  his  answer  ?  " 

"  It  wasn't  an  answer.  He  told  me :  '  Ah,  my  boy. 
You've  got  me  there.  Philosophy  is  only  concerned 
with  what  other  people  ought  to  do.'  I  put  the  whole 


254  BELLA 

case  before  him:  about  Daisy,  and  our  going  to  Spa- 
thorpe,  and  all  the  rest  of  it,  and  said:  'You  know 
us.  Ronsome.  Can  we  possibly  take  the  girl  to  Spa- 
thorpe  after  what's  happened  ?  '  He  said :  '  Out  of  the 
question ! '  '  But  it's  arranged  we're  to  join  the  fellow 
there  next  week/  I  tell  him.  '  What's  to  be  done  mean- 
while ?  We've  got  to  write  to  him  in  any  event.  What's 
to  be  said?  Are  we  to  ignore  the  whole  affair?  You 
can't  mean  that.'  He  asked ;  *  Is  he  engaged  to  Daisy  ? ' 
I  answered :  '  Not  exactly.'  He  says :  '  But  is  there  any 
understanding?'  I  tell  him:  'Well,  it  depends  what 
you  mean  by  understanding.  Damme,  there's  nothing 
to  laugh  at,  Ronsome.  They  were  boy  and  girl  to- 
gether. He's  seen  more  of  her  than  anybody  else  that 
we  know  of.  They're  more  like  brother  and  sister.' 
'  Ah !  that's  the  mistake  of  it,'  says  he.  '  Many  a  time 
they've  sat  out  in  the  garden  after  tennis/  I  tell  him, 
'  and  Mrs.  Pendlip  expected  to  be  told  something  be- 
fore the  night  was  over.' " 

Mrs.  Pendlip  made  a  quick  token  of  remonstrance. 

"  Richard !  You  never  told  James  Ronsome  that ! 
You  shouldn't  have  introduced  my  name  in  that  way. 
It  was  unwise." 

"  Damme !  "  Pendlip  ejaculated,  "  you  can't  deny 
you  did.  And  Ronsome's  a  friend.  He  knows  thirty 
years  of  our  secrets.  You  can't  expect  counsel  if  you 
don't  give  confidence.  They're  not  engaged — that's  the 
truth  of  it.  And  there's  no  understanding  that  you  or  I 
could  venture  to  suggest  to  Rupert.  And  as  Ronsome 
says :  '  That  puts  Daisy  out  of  count.'  We  can't  recall 
the  fellow  to  any  sense  of  obligation  there.  And  then, 
he's  right  when  he  says  that  if  once  this  question  comes 
to  an  issue  between  us,  there'll  perhaps  be  blood  warmed 
on  both  sides.  We  shall  retire  on  our  dignity,  and 


BELLA  255 

Rupert  will  stick  to  his  independence,  and  probably  keep 
.as  clear  of  Dulwich  as  he  can,  and  by  the  time  the 
whole  thing  has  blown  over  we  shall  all  be  shy  of  one 
another,  and  have  to  start  from  the  beginning  again 
by  being  polite,  like  strangers.  '  All  that  has  got  to  be 
considered,'  says  Ronsome.  And,  of  course,  as  he  re- 
marked, the  thing  itself  isn't  so  dreadful,  if  it  weren't 
so  public.  Boys  will  be  boys." 

Mrs.  Pendlip  pursed  her  lips  into  a  reproving  frill, 
and  apostrophized  her  husband.  "  Richard !  Don't  tell 
me  you  countenance  such  a  horrid  thought  as  that. 
James  Ronsome  has  no  son  or  daughter  to  consider." 

As  a  matter  of  fact,  Pendlip's  quotation  of  his  friend 
was  not  quite  verbatim.  Ronsome  did  not  say :  "  Boys 
will  be  boys,"  but  "  We've  all  been  young  in  our  day, 
Pendlip,  and  possibly  a  pretty  woman  could  play  the 
fool  with  a  number  of  us  even  now,  if  she  set  her 
mind  to  it.  The  nuisance  is,  she  doesn't  try.  I'm  not 
going  to  quarrel  with  Rupert's  taste,  for  Isabel  Dysart 
is  a  fine  woman,  after  all's  said  and  done,  and  looks 
ten  years  younger  than  she  must  be.  But  that's  not 
to  say  we're  going  to  pawn  our  respectable  gray  hairs 
and  hard-earned  reputations  to  help  youth  out  with  its 
follies.  If  only  the  young  beggar  had  been  reasonably 
discreet  I  should  have  enjoyed  taking  supper  with  the 
two  of  them  after  the  theater  one  night  and  hearing 
Isabel  sing.  Why,  for  the  matter  of  that  I  think  I  did 
hear  her  sing,  Pendlip,  for  I  strolled  quietly  round  by 
Cromwell  Lodge  after  dinner  and  heard  some  one 
carolling  like  the  lark  over  the  garden  wall.  That's 
where  I  stopped  and  talked  with  the 'police  sergeant, 
and  let  him  dip  his  fingers  in  my  cigar  case  in  return 
for  a  little  casual  information." 

All  this,  however — with  the  exception  of  Ronsome's 


256 

reconnaissance  in  person  of  Cromwell  Lodge — Pendlip 
subjected  to  discreet  revisal.  He  passed  on  to  other 
parts  of  Ronsome's  counsel. 

"  Ronsome  talks  about  '  tact/  but  when  I  ask  him 
what  he  means  by  tact  in  this  case,  he  tells  me  tact  is 
easier  to  define  than  manage.  Tact,  he  says,  is  like  a 
fine  violin,  that  requires  a  fiddler  to  play  it — but  what 
the  deuce  is  the  good  of  that  sort  of  definition  to  me? 
Then  he  warns  me :  '  Above  all,  don't  rush  at  the  fel- 
low and  start  slapping  his  head  like  a  bad  boy,  just 
because  somebody  else — no  better,  perhaps,  but  a  little 
older — has  been  telling  tales  about  him.  He's  a  grown- 
up man,  remember,  master  of  his  own  mind,  money,  and 
actions,  and  any  respect  he  may  show  you  now  comes 
only  out  of  the  recollection  of  an  old  obedience  you 
taught  him,  like  a  trick  to  a  dog.  Perhaps  he's  for- 
gotten it  altogether  by  now.  Don't  expect  after  this 
length  of  time  he  will  rise  at  the  first  word  of  com- 
mand. In  fact,  don't  try  to  command  him  at  all.  No 
recriminations.  No  pious  expostulations.  No  crumbs 
of  outraged  rectitude.  No  show  of  authority.  No 
strong  drugs,  but  the  gentlest  homoeopathy  for  a  case 
like  this.' 

"'Then  you'd  write  to  him?'  I  asked.  'If  your 
mind's  set  on  it,'  he  answered.  *  My  mind's  set  on 
nothing,'  I  tell  him.  '  So  much  the  better,'  says  he. 
But  in  the  end  he  asks :  '  Why  not  run  over  to  Spa- 
thorpe  yourself,  and  see  him?  You  needn't  say  what 
for.  Give  him  a  wire,  if  you  like,  just  to  prepare  him 
— so  that  you  can  make  sure  of  finding  him  disengaged. 
You  don't  want  to  blunder  into  the  thick  of  it.  Ask 
him  to  dine  with  you  at  the  hotel  and  spy  out  the  char- 
acter of  the  land  for  yourself.  If  you  see  a  favorable 
chance  to  speak,  take  it.'  I  asked :  '  What  do  you  call 
a  favorable  chance  ? '  He  said :  '  Probably  the  second 


BELLA  257 

bottle  of  Bellinger.'  I  tell  him :  '  Why  the  fellow  hardly 
drinks  at  all.'  '  That's  rather  a  pity,'  says  he.  '  Wine  is 
so  good  for  the  conscience.'  '  Is  that  what  you'd  do 
yourself,  Ronsome?'  I  asked.  'I?'  says  Ronsome. 
'  Probably  I  might  do  far  worse  than  that.  Physicians 
prescribe  badly  for  themselves.  And  as  for  interfer- 
ence with  other  people's  affairs,  why! — to  tell  the  truth, 
Pendlip,  I've  seen  so  much  of  it  in  my  time  with  disas- 
trous results  that  I'm  become  a  sceptic.  I  don't  know 
whether  a  man's  bad  principles — so  long  as  they're  his 
own — aren't  better  for  him  than  the  best  intentions  de- 
vised by  his  friends.  But  that's  for  you  to  settle.  I 
can't  say.  I  haven't  a  marriageable  daughter.' 

"  I'd  a  very  good  mind  to  go  to  Spathorpe,"  Pendlip 
remarked.  "  After  all,  it  was  Ronsome's  idea.  He 
said :  '  Think  it  over.  You'll  see  what  I  mean.'  I  could 
go  to-morrow — take  the  luncheon  train.  Well,  well,  I 
say  no  more." 

The  idea  gained  on  him ;  Mrs.  Pendlip  espoused  it — 
though  the  agnostic  influence  of  Ronsome  plainly  per- 
meated both. 

"Of  course,  be  very  careful  what  you  say  to  him, 
Richard.  Do  nothing  to  anger  him.  You  mustn't  raise 
your  voice  as  if  it  were  politics.  Don't  have  any  words. 
Remember  what  James  Ronsome  told  you  and  think 
of  Daisy." 

Pendlip  resented  the  aspersion  cast  upon  his  voice. 
"  Do  you  think  I'm  not  to  be  trusted  ?  " 

His  wife,  the  caution  once  given  made  haste  to  suck 
the  venom  from  it,  laying  the  emollient  of  flattery  on 
the  wound.  Whom,  indeed,  could  she  trust  better? 
Their  boy  was  in  safe  hands,  she  knew.  They  pre- 
pared in  quickened  phrases  the  programme  for  the  mor- 
row. "  You  must  give  him  our  loves,  Richard,  our 
special  loves,  Daisy's  and  mine.  Don't  forget  Daisy's." 


BELLA 

Pendlip  calculated  trains,  rehearsed  himself  in  the 
prudent  ritual  of  his  purpose.  "  I'll  put  up  at  the 
Majestic.  He  shall  dine  with  me  there.  It's  just  a 
run  over  for  a  breath  of  sea-air  and  a  peep  at  him. 
That's  what  it  is." 

"  Daisy  has  been  thinking  so  much  about  him, 
lately,"  Mrs.  Pendlip  suggested. 

"  True,  true.  Daisy's  been  thinking  so  much  about 
him  lately.  And  we're  a  little  uncertain  whether  the 
doctor  will  allow  her  to  go  to  Spathorpe  next  week  or 
not." 

"  The  east  coast  is  rather  bleak,  Richard.  We're 
anxious  about  her  chest." 

"  To  be  sure.  Rather  bleak.  Anxious  about  her 
chest." 

"  Rupert  will  understand  we  must  do  nothing  rash. 
Give  him  our  loves,  Richard.  Of  course,  I  told  you 
that." 

"And  then — at  dinner.     Well,  well — we  shall  see." 

"  Be  sure  and  choose  your  opportunity.  Daisy  is 
stronger,  tell  him,  but  looking  still  very  pale.  She  reads 
his  letters  over  and  over  again,  Richard.  Don't  forget 
that.  They  quite  bring  the  color  back  to  her  cheeks. 
She  opens  them  before  any  other.  We  often  talk  about 
him.  Daisy  asks  :  '  What  will  Rupert  be  doing  now  ? ' 
Illness  has  not  made  her  forget  him,  say." 

And  so  it  continues.  No  word  is  to  be  said  to 
Daisy.  Her  father's  sudden  journey  shall  not  be  made 
known  to  her  until  she  rises  on  her  late  pillow  next 
morning.  Nor  will  her  father's  destination  be  Spa- 
thorpe, but  some  objective  of  more  commercial  signifi- 
cance. In  contemplated  action  despondency  goes.  Their 
hopes  revive.  Pendlip  says  courageously  he  can  but  do 
his  best.  Mrs.  Pendlip  returns  to  her  comfortable 
earlier  hypothesis. 


BELLA  259 

"  Perhaps  it  is  all  a  mistake,  Richard.  Such  mis- 
takes have  happened  before." 

Pendlip  says :    "Pray  Heaven  it  may  be." 

"  Bring  him  back  with  you  if  you  can,  Richard," 
his  wife  bids  him.  "  Don't  leave  the  boy  there.  Any- 
thing may  happen  when  once  you're  gone.  This  is  his 
home,  always  his  home.  Don't  fail  to  tell  him  that." 

And  if  Daisy  Pendlip  were  inclined  to  suspect  her 
own  fate  in  any  way  in  the  balance,  or  some  mo- 
mentous secret  kept  from  her,  she  would  find  the  legible 
signs  in  her  mother's  sudden  intensification  of  kindness, 
or  the  difficulty  with  which  she  encountered  or  held  her 
father's  eye. 


XXXVI 

THE  telegraph  poles  grew  slower  in  their  flight 
across  the  carriage  window;  the  train  threaded  its 
more  cautious  way  through  a  maze  of  switch-lines  and 
points,  a  signalman,  perched  in  the  open  window  of 
his  high  cabin,  leaned  on  elbow  to  watch  it  go  by. 
There  were  signs  on  every  hand  that  the  sunlit  fields 
and  grassy  slopes  that  had  borne  Pendlip  smiling  com- 
pany throughout  this  latter  portion  of  his  journey  were 
falling  behind  in  this  friendly  race  with  the  stronger, 
swifter  sinews  of  steel  and  steam.  A  great  green  hill 
rose  up  on  his  right  hand;  swelling  out  of  sight  be- 
yond the  carriage  roof.  Pendlip  had  to  stoop  in  his 
seat  to  see  the  summit,  where  a  flag  fluttered  and  three 
or  four  carriages  rested  motionless  against  the  sky,  and 
small  microscopic  mortals,  that  one  might  have  rolled 
into  oblivion  between  a  finger  and  thumb,  stood  gazing 
down  upon  this  little  centipede  of  wood  and  iron  that 
crawled  around  them  at  their  base.  Other  carriages  in 
various  stages  of  ascension  worked  their  slow  way  to 
the  summit,  that  was  darkened  with  foliage  and  bronze- 
green  bracken,  scorched  beneath  a  summer  of  burning 
suns  and  hinting  already  the  russet-ripeness  of  autumn. 
At  Pendlip's  distance  all  sense  of  physical  exertion 
seemed  purged  from  the  scene,  leaving  nothing  but  the 
clear  delicious  essence  of  pure  motion  and  the  stead- 
fast blueness  of  an  afternoon  sky.  Trees  succeeded, 
sweeping  the  window-squares  with  whispering  leafy 
branches,  and  dappling  the  hot  carriage  with  cool 

260 


BELLA  261 

shadows  of  gold  and  green.  Thereafter  came  prim 
privet  hedges,  and  walls,  yielding  glimpses  of  torrid 
gardens  and  lawns  baking  in  the  sun,  with  indolent 
rollers  cocked  up  on  end  to  the  sky,  and  cool  serpentine 
coils  of  gutta-percha  tubing,  ready  to  refresh  the 
parched  herb  at  sundown.  And  after  these,  roofs  rising 
tier  over  tier  out  of  the  valley  at  the  rail-embankment's 
foot,  and  crowded  chimney  stacks;  and  distant  domes 
unheaved  slowly  in  dead  beaten  gold  and  burnished 
copper;  and  a  spire  or  two,  and  a  church  tower  with 
the  hours  struck  in  flame  off  its  luminous  clock  target; 
and  tremendous  stars  blazing  to  blindness  on  glass  roofs 
and  high  windows;  and  here  and  there  the  fairy  sheen 
of  telephone  wires  looped  from  gable  to  gable  like  gos- 
samer. 

The  elderly  gentleman  in  the  opposite  corner  of  the 
compartment,  who  had  kept  revealing  a  vulcanite  palate 
during  moments  of  unguarded  and  unlovely  slumber 
throughout  the  journey,  wakened  with  a  jerk,  reclaimed 
the  paper  that  had  slipped  off  his  knees  every  three  min- 
utes for  the  past  half  hour,  and  with  a  miraculous  re- 
covery of  his  faculties  addressed  himself  to  the  col- 
lection of  his  belongings  after  a  look  through  the 
window  and  a  confirmative  glance  at  his  watch — being 
of  the  class  of  individuals  that  time  trains  as  if  they 
were  pulses,  and  will  express  incomprehension  to  a 
whole  carriageful  of  any  cause  that  puts  the  time- 
table a  few  minutes  to  the  bad,  telling  Pendlip:  "We 
are  running  nearly  punctual  to-day,  sir.  Unusual  for 
this  line.  I  put  my  watch  right  with  York  this  morn- 
ing, by  Greenwich."  To  which  Pendlip,  startled  out  of 
a  reverie,  returned :  "  Ha !  " 

Thereupon  the  gentleman  consigned  several  books 
and  a  check  traveling-cap  to  a  brown  dispatch  case, 
and  took  Mr.  Pendlip's  umbrella  into  his  own  hands 


262  BELLA 

under  thoughtful  consideration  before  appealing  to  him 
if  he  were  the  owner  of  it.  Pendlip  said  hurriedly  he 
was,  and  made  himself  its  immediate  possessor  in  fact, 
rising  too,  in  turn,  to  give  a  prudent  glance  above  his 
head  to  either  rack  and  behind  him  on  the  cushions 
that  were  still  warm,  and  bore  the  impress  of  his  ample 
person.  As  he  did  so  the  train  glided  into  the  station, 
sloughing  its  sunlight  like  a  skin  beneath  the  screened 
dimness  of  smoked  glass  roofage,  where  steam  billowed 
against  the  girders  and  the  busy  Westinghouse  brake 
began  to  throb.  Long  lines  of  expectant  faces  slid  by 
the  carriage;  whole  parterres  of  them,  row  behind  row, 
upturned  to  the  passing  windows.  Here  and  there  quick 
eyes  caught  sudden  sight  of  what  they  looked  for,  and 
faces  in  the  flower-bed  blossomed  into  florid  signals  of 
recognition,  but  there  was  no  countenance  that  Pendlip 
knew.  The  train,  gathering  leech-like  porters  to  all  its 
first-class  doors,  drew  to  a  standstill  and  the  faces  closed 
in  upon  it;  a  typical  sea-side  throng  in  sweaters  and 
flannels  and  flaunting  summer  raiment;  tanned — or 
many  of  them — like  pennies  fresh  from  the  mint ;  coined 
symbols  of  scorching  days  and  fierce  hot  sand  and  briny 
waters  and  August  idleness.  Even  above  the  smell  of 
sweating  mechanism  and  axle-grease,  and  stale  steam 
there  came  to  Pendlip,  as  the  door  opened,  the  unmis- 
takable nip  of  ocean;  the  saline  freshness  of  wide  wa- 
ters, with  a  redolence  of  the  finny  denizens  that  swim 
in  them;  the  vigor  of  air  cooled  across  miles  of  rolling 
sea,  and  made  hot  by  reflection  from  dry  and  glittering 
sands;  as  air  to  the  lungs  what  wine  is  to  the  body — 
and  doubly  so  to  this  newcomer  from  the  brick-kiln 
capital  called  London.  Ah !  but  for  the  consciousness  of 
his  errand,  how  Richard  Pendlip  might  have  broadened 
his  chest  to  make  room  for  more  of  this  invigorating 
element;  drawn  it  in  to  the  ultimate  capacity  of  his 


BELLA 


263 


lungs,  ready  for  genial  expulsion  in  greeting  to  the  Poet! 
"Well,  well,  my  boy!  There  you  are  at  last!  Glad 
to  see  you!  Feeling  fit,  are  you?  That's  right!  Well 
well " 

But  now  his  lungs  compressed  material  for  no  such 
salutation.  Except  in  finance,  where  his  immobile  face 
served  as  a  masked  battery  for  figures,  Richard  Pendlip 
was  no  actor.  Do  what  he  would,  he  knew  his  greeting 
must  be  lukewarm;  his  tongue  shunned,  as  with  a  con- 
science of  its  own,  the  simulated  phrases.  His  eye  even, 
shirked  a  recognition  of  the  object  of  its  search,  know- 
ing already  that  it  could  not  kindle  with  the  gladness 
expected  of  it,  and  only  looked  the  bolder  at  the  crowd 
with  a  gathering  confidence  that  what  it  stood  in  awe 
of  was  not  there.  Yes.  Nobody  who  watched  this 
magnate  step  from  his  compartment  with  an  obsequious 
porter  half -obliterated  behind  the  amplitude  of  him, 
would  have  suspected  such  a  form  to  be  the  home  of 
trumpery  misgivings.  And  yet  with  every  mile  that 
removed  him  further  from  Ronsome  and  brought  him 
nearer  to  his  task,  the  store  of  Pendlip's  confidence — 
that  precious  lubricant  of  action  without  which  all  hu- 
man mechanism  creaks  and  labors — had  diminished,  and 
the  uphill  gradient  had  seemed  to  steepen.  Situations  not 
seen  as  difficulties  before  detached  themselves  at  nearer 
hand  into  independent  problems  of  magnitude.  Pendlip 
began  to  doubt  his  stomach  for  the  enterprise,  and 
wished,  respecting  not  a  few  contingencies  that  rose  one 
after  the  other  like  waves,  imparting  an  up  and  down 
and  very  dubious  motion  to  his  mind,  that  he  had  put 
them  first  to  Ronsome.  For,  by  so  much  as  we  incline 
to  the  counsel  of  another,  our  own  initiative  lessens, 
and  it  is  possible  to  find  ourselves  at  last,  as  Pendlip 
did,  in  some  unsatisfactory  mid-position  between  inde- 
pendence and  servitude;  possessed  of  a  mind  that 


264  BELLA 

neither  acts  for  us  nor  for  another,  but  serves  two 
masters  and  betrays  them  both.  If  Pendlip  fabricated 
one  explanation  of  his  visit  during  the  course  of  his 
journey,  he  fabricated  a  score;  he  was  as  busy  as  a  lock- 
smith, making  motives  to  fit  the  occasion,  and  still 
feared  whichever  key  he  ultimately  used  would  stick  in 
the  turning  and  betray  its  manufacture.  Nor  even  on 
descent  at  the  Spathorpe  station  had  he  selected  which 
should  be  employed;  they  jangled  loosely  in  his  mind, 
and  he  confided  himself  to  Providence  with  an  improvi- 
dence he  would  have  condemned  in  an  investor. 

But  no  Poet's  face  embarrassed  him.  Other  faces 
pressed  past;  other  hands,  to  whom  this  stationary 
portly  figure  was  but  an  obstacle,  pulled  at  his  sleeve 
for  passage.  He  stood  in  a  commotion  of  voluble  hu- 
manity, rock-like,  towering  above  all  its  flux,  and  his 
first  thought  was :  "  The  fellow  hasn't  dared  to  come." 
The  conviction  lent  grimness  to  his  mind,  and — if  he 
would  have  confessed  it — a  measure  of  relief  equiva- 
lent to  that  with  which  coerced  courage  learns  that  the 
dentist,  after  all,  is  not  at  home.  Well,  he  had  done  his 
duty;  he  had  faced  the  guns.  If  the  Poet  were  too 
much  occupied  or  too  guilty  to  keep  this  appointment, 
the  fault  was  none  of  Pendlip's. 

And  then,  just  as  the  pleated  lips  turned  to  renounce 
attendance  and  give  directions  to  the  porter,  his  eye — 
at  the  very  moment  of  exercising  its  function  least — 
showed  him  the  face  he  almost  hoped  to  miss.  His 
careless  gaze,  left  high  and  dry  by  the  receding  crowd, 
grounded  on  the  shallows.  Before  he  could  refloat  it, 
his  stranded  bark  was  signaled  and  a  rocket  fired  from 
shore.  Next  moment  the  Poet's  own  sunburned  hand 
was  making  the  rope  secure,  clasping  Pendlip's  leg  of 
mutton  hand  in  his  and  shaking  it  with  a  fervor  that 
seemed  to  know  neither  shame  nor  deception.  If  Pend- 


'  This  is  the  little  friend  you  have  read  so  much  about 


265 

lip's  disquietude  had  magnified  &e  ordeal  of  the  en- 
counter, this  greeting,  at  least,  put  his  apprehensions  to 
rout.  The  Poet's  first  query,  after  his  words  of  wel- 
come, was  for  Daisy. 

"How  is  she?" 

Pendlip  recalled,  too  late,  the  lingering  cough  and 
the  bleak  coast.  In  the  spasm  of  the  moment  he  could 
only  think  of  the  truth. 

"  Ever  so  much  better.    Gaining  strength  nicely." 

"  I  was  a  little  afraid  at  first " 

"Yes,  yes " 

"And   Mrs.   Pendlip?" 

"  Thank  you,  thank  you " 


"  I'm  awfully  glad  you've  come " 

"Well,  well,  well " 

And  then  he  saw  that  other  face  drawn  forward, 
that  he  had  been  desperately  trying  to  overlook  all  this 
while,  and  felt  that  other,  softer,  smaller  hand  placed 
within  his  own,  and  heard  the  fateful  words  that  linked 
him  indissolubly  with  all  he  had  wished  and  striven  to 
avoid. 

"  This  is  the  little  friend  you  have  read  so  much 
about — Miss  Dysart" — ("Dysart?  Ay!  That  was  the 
name.  James  Ronsome  had  made  no  mistake!") — 
"who  sent  all  those  kind  messages  to  Daisy.  She  has 
come  down  on  purpose  to  meet  you  and  make  your 
acquaintance.  Haven't  you,  Bella?  " 

From  out  of  the  mist  of  the  girlish  personality  that 
Pendlip's  vision  sought  to  repel  from,  rather  than  admit 
to,  his  consciousness,  he  caught  the  sound  of  a  soft 
"  O  my ! "  among  other  words  his  hearing  wilfully  re- 
jected. The  little  hand,  taken  and  liberated  as  briefly 
as  might  be,  stirred  in  him  the  resentment  for  a  compact 
gained  by  trickery. 

He  said :  "  Yes,  yes—"  and  the  face  that  reverted 
18 


266  BELLA 

to  the  Poet  was  harder,  though  to  the  Poet  it  only 
seemed  more  aged  than  when  last  seen,  and  gravity 
more  habituated  to  it.  He  did  not  divine  the  expletive 
held  behind  the  tightened  lips.  "  Condemn  the  fellow !  " 
Pendlip  was  saying  to  himself.  "  Is  he  so  devoid  of 
sense  as  this?  What's  he  brought  the  girl  here  for? 
I  didn't  ask  for  her.  Does  he  think  to  hoodwink  me, 
or  is  he  using  her  to  stop  my  mouth?  Good  Lord! 
Now  what  would  James  Ronsome  say  to  this  ?  "  The 
look  he  plunged  into  the  boy's  eyes  was,  despite  his 
pledged  policy,  almost  sword-like  and  severe.  A  guilty 
conscience  must  have  flinched  under  the  thrust  of  it, 
or  shown  retaliatory  steel.  "  Am  I  then  such  a  very- 
big  fool  ? "  Pendlip's  indignation  seemed  to  challenge 
the  Poet.  "  Am  I  ?  Come !  A  truce  to  dissimulation. 
Let  us  deal  with  the  truth  of  things." 

But  yet,  there  showed  no  dissimulation  about  this 
face,  so  familiar  to  Pendlip's  present  sight  and  past  re- 
membrance. The  boy  looked  back  at  him  whom  Pend- 
lip had  always  known ;  frankness  and  friendliness  welled 
up  and  overflowed  his  smiling  eyes.  Beneath  that 
rapier-like  thrust  of  scrutiny  he  never  flinched.  The 
olive  brownness  of  his  open  cheek  told  of  salt  breezes 
and  burning  suns;  of  vice  or  hidden  wisdom  the  coun- 
tenance betrayed  no  trace.  He  stood  with  his  arm 
slipped  through  the  arm  of  the  girl,  as  he  had  drawn 
her  forward  to  Pendlip's  notice,  and  interpreted  her 
presence  with  a  candor  as  unintelligible  as  it  was  clear. 

"  Bella  knows  almost  as  much  about  you,"  he  told 
the  older  man,  "  as  I  know  myself,  and  is  ever  so  anxious 
to  know  more.  I  promised  to  tell  her  heaps  of  things 
if  she  would  agree  to  take  them  like  the  new  nurse, 
without  a  character.  But  no.  She's  such  a  girl  for 
truth.  So  I  said  she'd  better  come  and  ask  you  all 


BELLA 


267 


about  yourself  in  person.    If  there's  any  business  to  be 
discussed " 

'There  is,"  Pendlip  interposed,  more  hastily  than 
discreetly. 

"It  can  be  left  over  awhile!"  the  Poet  completed, 
laughingly.  "  Of  course,  you  are  coming  back  with  us 
now.  You  will  take  tea  with  us.  And  after  that  you 
will  dine  with  me." 

"  No,  no — "  Pendlip  drew  forth  his  watch,  finger- 
ing it  as  though  to  suggest  the  pressure  of  time  and 
affairs.  "  It's  very  good  of  you.  Fact  is— I  never 
thought.  I've  ordered  my  room  and  dinner  for  two  at 
the  Majestic  by  wire.  I  want  you  to  be  my  guest. 
There  are  several  little  matters" — for  the  life  of  him 
could  he  have  said  what  little  matters  they  were,  at  the 
moment — "to  be  discussed." 

Go  back  with  "  us  " !  Take  tea  with  "  us  " !  What 
on  earth  did  the  fellow  mean?  How  would  James 
Ronsome  have  treated  such  audacity  as  that?  The 
porter,  at  Pendlip's  elbow,  dangling  the  brown  port- 
manteau from  a  limp  arm,  caught  the  owner's  eye 
adroitly,  and  a  swift  responsive  forefinger  flew  to  his 
forehead. 

"Kerridge,  sir?" 

"  Carriage,"  Pendlip  repeated.  With  a  loose  move- 
ment the  man  set  off  for  the  cab-rank,  Pendlip's  port- 
manteau buffeting  the  hollow  of  his  knee.  Pendlip  said : 
"Well,  well — "  and  directed  an  irresolute  look  at  the 
Poet,  half  helpless,  half  inquiring.  "  Then  you  will  dine 
with  me  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  Since  you  won't  dine  with  me,"  the  Poet  answered. 

"  Well  then—"  said  Pendlip,  and  the  difficulty  in  his 
gaze  renewed  itself.  He  tried  to  make  the  glance  con- 
vey a  pointed  insinuation  for  the  Poet's  company  unat- 


268  BELLA 

tended ;  a  demand  for  privacy ;  but  to  the  Poet  this  look 
showed  no  variation  from  the  first — merely  the  ab- 
stracted gaze  of  a  grave  and  elderly  man. 

"  At  least,  we  will  drive  with  you,"  the  Poet  sug- 
gested, "  if  you'll  have  us." 

Pendlip,  fuming  impotently  within,  said:  "To  be 
sure."  Had  Bella  taken  leave  of  them  at  that  moment, 
his  remonstrance  must  have  broken  forth,  Ronsome  or 
no  Ronsome;  despite  his  pledges,  wife  and  daughter. 
But  the  girl's  attention,  small  and  meek  but  curiously 
close,  wandered  all  over  him,  he  knew,  like  a  fly  upon 
a  ceiling,  and  with  an  eye  hundredfold  in  power  of 
perceptiveness.  He  gathered  up  the  corners  of  his  lips 
and  passed  with  his  companions  to  the  waiting  landau ; 
an  open  vehicle  of  the  old  Spathorpe  regime,  driven  by 
an  ancient  marine-looking  gentleman  with  a  crimson 
visage,  who  appeared  as  if  he  might  have  come  out 
of  a  lobster  pot.  In  this  relic  of  decayed  gentility 
Pendlip  took  his  submissive  place,  breathing  as  if  he 
had  reached  it  by  a  flight  of  stairs.  Mrs.  Dysart's  un- 
desirable daughter  sat  by  his  side;  indeed,  had  the  man 
but  known  it  he  was  seated  on  part  of  her  frock.  Bella 
tried  to  release  it  once,  but  dared  make  no  second  at- 
tempt lest  she  should  draw  Pendlip's  attention  to  the 
situation  and  disturb  him  into  ruffled  apologies,  which 
above  all  Bella  dreaded  from  so  august  a  personage. 
The  Poet  faced  them  both,  with  his  back  to  the  lobster 
and  the  jaded  horse. 


XXXVII 

A  T  first  Pendlip  professed  interest  in  all  things  over 
•**•  the  carriage  wheel  to  the  exclusion  of  the  two 
other  occupants.  But  as  they  drove  out  of  the  dim 
sanctuary  of  the  station  into  the  sunlit  openness  of 
Spathorpe,  his  gaze  shortened  its  area,  and  shrunk 
abashed  from  the  odious  publicity  in  which  he  felt  him- 
self paraded.  For  Richard  Pendlip  held  fast  by  the 
public  proprieties,  and  sat  as  wretched  in  this  false 
position  as  he  would  have  done  in  a  Labor  Member's 
carriage,  drawn  by  cheering  socialists,  with  a  red  rosette 
pinned  to  his  lapel.  Every  face  that  looked  his  way 
burned  like  the  sun  above.  Shadrack,  Meshack  and 
Abed-nego,  that  historic  trinity  of  fire-eaters,  felt  less 
scorch  from  Nebuchadnezzar's  furnace  than  Pendlip, 
dragged  unwilling  through  these  consuming  flames  of 
notice.  His  indignation  condemned  himself  and  his  ill- 
considered  telegram  of  the  morning.  "  Why  did  I  wire 
the  fellow !  I  might  have  known  by  what  Ronsome  told 
me  he  would  do  something  senseless.  If  I'd  merely 
asked  him  to  dine  with  me  at  the  hotel  he  couldn't  have 
let  me  in  for  a  thing  like  this.  What  will  people  think 
of  me!  At  my  age." 

Yet  here  was  the  author  of  his  wretchedness,  his 
boy's  smiling  face  thrust  forward,  chattering  into  Pend- 
lip's  wandering  ear  as  if  their  progress  were  a  pleasure 
drive;  implicating  the  girl's  voice,  too,  and  forcing 
Pendlip  out  of  his  protective  abstraction  into  the  free 
exchange  of  words.  And  such  is  the  instinct  of  human 

269 


270  BELLA 

nature  for  companionship  that  Pendlip  even  found  this 
conversation  in  the  carriage  more  supportable  than  the 
stares  awaiting  him  beyond,  and  took  refuge  with  the 
very  causes  of  his  discomfort  from  the  publicity  his 
uneasiness  imagined  they  drew  upon  him.  So,  rather 
than  expose  his  face  to  the  causeways — that  to  his  un- 
easy conscience  teemed  with  observant  Ronsomes — he 
leaned  forward  in  the  carriage,  and  being  forced  to  give 
some  countenance  to  the  presence  of  the  undesired  pas- 
senger, discovered  Isabel  Dysart's  daughter  to  be,  as 
his  own  mind  phrased  it,  "  an  exceedingly  attractive 
girl."  Nay,  more  than  this.  Each  time  Richard  Pend- 
lip paid  his  youthful  companion  the  compliment  of  a 
look  at  her  gray  eyes,  the  resentment  in  him  at  once 
died  down;  something  akin  to  pity  took  its  place.  For 
Pendlip,  despite  his  gray  side-whiskers  and  financial  lip, 
was  not  blind  to  beauty,  and  had  the  vanity  to  think 
beauty  was  not  altogether  blind  to  him.  When  Ron- 
some  reminded  him  that  each  was  one  time  young,  he 
spoke  the  truth,  whatever  else  the  saying  might  impute. 
Pendlip's  severe  profile  was  as  susceptible  to  the  melt- 
ing blandishments  of  a  pretty  woman  as  the  Poet's  own ; 
and  the  older  man  flattered  himself  on  his  power  to  be 
popular  with  youth.  At  the  third  look  at  this  gentle 
figure  of  girlhood,  on  whose  imprisoned  skirt  unwit- 
.tingly  he  sat,  Pendlip's  heart  grew  lenient.  Justice 
stirred  in  him.  An  internal  voice  argued :  "  After  all. 
What  has  this  poor  child  to  do  with  it  ?  Why  make  her 
innocence  suffer  with  the  guilty?"  The  soft  insistence 
of  her  gaze,  always  on  his  face,  and  very  searching,  yet 
mild  as  April  sunshine  when  looked  at,  made  an  appeal 
to  his  pride.  "  I  don't  want  her  to  think  me  an  old 
curmudgeon,"  his  soul  confessed.  "Damme,  I'm  not 
that  yet.  This  drive  is  none  of  her  doing.  I've  no 
quarrel  with  her.  Heaven  help  her,  she's  only  a  child 


BELLA  271 

now,  whatever  she  may  come  to  be.  And  after  all,  she 
sent  her  love  to  us,  and  I've  taken  it,  and  sent  ours  back. 
Even  James  Ronsome  wouldn't  expect  me  to  act  the 
beast." 

Nor  did  he.  Once  his  mind  drew  its  definite  division 
between  Bella  Dysart  and  the  faults  with  which,  like 
him,  she  was  so  innocently  confounded,  his  reticence 
thawed.  She  saw  a  new  Pendlip  in  place  of  the  old, 
and  thought,  perhaps,  the  earlier  figure  had  been  shy. 
Even  to  the  Poet  it  seemed  the  Spathorpe  sun  began 
appreciably  to  warm  his  former  guardian's  heart,  and 
in  his  more  expansive  smiles  perceived  the  effect  of 
these  pleasant  surroundings  and  potent  air.  Pendlip, 
like  all  men  pledged  to  a  task  disliked,  was  glad  to  cry 
truce  with  what  oppressed  him,  recovering  wonderfully 
in  spirit  the  moment  it  was  proclaimed,  and  knew  the 
opposing  forces  were  dehostilized  till  dinner.  And 
though  he  tried  to  keep  his  friendliness  free  of  hy- 
pocrisy, and  his  laughter  of  all  that  could  (by  later  light) 
be  viewed  as  guile,  he  did  his  best  to  be  himself,  and 
act  toward  the  delinquent  as  the  delinquent  did  to  him, 
and  to  the  girl  as  her  age  and  sex  and  gentleness 
demanded. 

True,  as  they  drew  up  before  the  gilded  facade 
of  the  Majestic,  Pendlip's  apprehensions  shrunk  be- 
neath something  of  the  former  constraint.  He  would 
have  heaved  a  sigh  of  deliverance  here,  had  this  fa- 
vored part  of  Spathorpe  shown  less  sun  and  animation, 
but  he  noted  with  dismay  the  rows  of  merciless  cigars 
upon  the  spacious  steps,  the  range  of  wicker-chairs 
buried  beneath  feminine  flounces,  receding  into  the  wel- 
come dimness  of  the  domed  vestibule;  the  stream  of 
curious  people  that  slackened  visibly  as  the  landau  came 
to  a  standstill,  and  he  drew  his  breath  at  the  necessity 
to  run  the  gauntlet  of  so  many  eyes,  fearing  to  look  to 


272  BELLA 

right  or  left  lest  an  imprudent  glance  might  betray  the 
presence  of  some  odious  acquaintance.  Here,  if  any- 
where, since  there  was  no  withdrawal,  the  girl  furnished 
a  welcome  foil  to  his  feelings;  his  eye  had  in  her  a 
shield,  his  lips  a  buckler.  As  the  landau  grated  its 
forewheel  against  the  curb,  and  the  resplendent  porters 
ran  nimbly  down  the  hotel  steps,  Bella  was  busy  with 
confidences  and  interrogations,  the  warmth  of  her  fingers 
penetrating  through  Pendlip's  knee,  where  her  hand  had 
tumbled  in  the  interest  of  the  conversation.  "  O  my !  " 
she  exclaimed,  with  a  touch  of  regret  for  the  conclu- 
sion of  so  brief  a  journey,  "  Here  we  are !  It's  a  beau- 
tiful hotel — isn't  it! — from  the  outside.  Of  course,  I've 
never  been  inside.  I've  only  peeped  up  the  steps  and 
wondered." 

It  would  have  taken  a  sterner  man  than  Richard 
Pendlip  to  tread  this  gentle  daisy  of  suggestion  under- 
foot. Besides,  there  was  nothing  now  to  be  lost  or 
gained  before  the  sight  of  all  these  people.  The  ill — 
if  ill  there  were — was  wrought  already.  And  Bella's 
charm  had  worked  upon  him.  Beauty  and  a  soft  tongue 
and  yearning  eyes  and  the  tenderness  of  youth  had 
softened  him  and  roused  his  affections.  Despite  all  sur- 
rounding her  and  implicating  himself,  Pendlip  liked  the 
girl,  and  where  there  is  true  liking,  a  man  inclines  to  be 
reckless. 

"  Well,"  he  told  her  genially.  "  And  so  now  you're 
coming  inside  to  see  for  yourself,  aren't  you  ?  " 

"Am  I  ?  "  cried  Bella  joyously.  "  O  my !  I  should 
love  it.  Thank  you  ever  so  much.  Oh,  Roo !  Did  you 
hear !  Mr.  Pendlip's  invited  me  inside !  " 

At  the  bure&u  Pendlip  inquired  the  number  of  his 
rooms  from  a  tired  pretty  girl,  who  looked  as  if  she  had 
worn  out  her  energies  at  a  ball  the  night  before.  She 
rose  wearily  from  some  writing  at  an  inner  desk,  and 


BELLA  273 

turned  some  papers  with  a  lifeless  hand  that  might 
never  have  known  any  warmer  response  than  the  pres- 
.sure  of  her  own  pen.  There  was  ink  on  the  forefinger 
that  strayed  languidly  over  the  entries,  and  a  little  on 
her  lip. 

"Pendlip?"  she  read  out  interrogatively.  Pendlip 
acknowledged  the  name.  "Sitting-room  and  bedroom 
booked  by  wire  this  morning?  Dinner  for  two  at  eight 
o'clock?  Private  service?  Thank  you.  Forty-four  and 
forty-five."  And  she  passed  him  the  visitors'  book  to 
sign.  "  Send  up  tea  in  ten  minutes,"  Pendlip  told  her. 
The  tired  girl  scanned  his  signature  unemotionally,  and 
blotted  it.  "  Tea  for  three?  "  she  inquired,  looking  over 
Pendlip's  shoulder  with  automatic  calculation.  Pendlip 
turned  on  his  heel  in  swift  inquiry.  "Of  course,  of 
course,"  he  said,  as  though  the  question  called  for  no 
dispute;  to  the  window  adding  a  conclusive  "Thank 
you." 

And  this  is  how  Bella  Dysart  came  to  take  tea  as  she 
had  so  dearly  desired  with  the  august  Mr.  Pendlip,  in  a 
big  private  sitting-room  of  the  Majestic,  overlooking 
the  bay;  a  wondrous  high  sitting-room,  perched — or  so 
it  seemed — half  way  up  to  the  sun,  with  a  balcony 
(could  loyalty  but  admit  it)  more  amazing  than  the  Poet's 
own,  that  conferred  upon  the  courageous  beholder  from 
it,  a  thrilling  sense  of  sheerness  and  precipitous  inse- 
curity, as  if — out  here — one  were  upheld  by  nothing  but 
the  tender  mercy  of  infinite  Heaven.  So  perilously 
perched,  indeed,  that  when  one  wanted  to  show  one's 
friends  where  one  lived  with  one's  mamma,  one  had  to 
hold  tight  to  the  iron  balustrade  with  one  hand  while 
one  pointed  with  the  other;  though,  after  a  little  prac- 
tice and  familiarity,  one  knew  for  certain  that  one 
would  have  the  courage  to  run  in  and  out  between  the 
big  round  room  and  blue  immensity  as  if  one  were  bred 


274  BELLA 

to  altitude  and  the  elements  like  a  bird.  In  this  room 
they  shared  a  glorious  repast,  with  special  cakes  and 
sweetnesses  for  Bella — for  though  the  leonine  Pendlip 
in  his  own  home  turned  confectioner's  trumpery  over 
with  a  critical  and  supercilious  finger,  inquiring: 
"What's  this?  What  do  you  call  these?"  and  always 
ultimately  served  himself  to  bread  and  butter,  he  flat- 
tered his  heart  he  knew  the  ways  and  tastes  of  young 
ladies,  and  called  to  the  white-faced  waiter  as  he  was 
about  to  take  his  leave :  "  No,  no.  Stop  a  moment. 
Hello!  Psst!  Let's  have  something  sweet  and  insub- 
stantial as  well;  something  for  a  young  lady;  chocolate 
cake  or  meringues,  if  you've  got  'em." 

And  tea  (partaken  in  private,  apart  from  curious 
and  complicating  eyes)  assumed  almost  the  character 
of  a  birthday  party.  When  Pendlip — grown  nearly  back 
into  his  external  self  once  more,  now  there  was  no  gaze 
of  outraged  propriety  to  be  feared — uttered  at  length  the 
well-known  phrase  that  Bella  had  been  waiting  for  so 
vigilantly,  she  could  not  restrain  herself,  but  cried  in 
triumph  to  the  Poet :  "  O  my !  He's  said  it  now,  hasn't 
he ! "  turning  next  as  horrified  a  crimson  as  the  cherry 
plums  in  the  fruit  cake,  while  the  Poet  shook  with 
laughter. 

"  Said  what  ?  "  inquired  Pendlip,  perplexed,  but  smil- 
ing too. 

"  Only  a  little  joke  of  our  own,"  the  Poet  answered. 
"  I'll  tell  you  later."  And  indeed  he  meant  to  do,  but 
that  more  serious  matters  interposed,  and  the  cause  of 
Bella's  coloration  and  his  own  laughter  was  never 
divulged. 

And  then,  after  one  farewell  experience  of  the  won- 
der of  the  window,  the  Poet  and  Bella  took  their  leave; 
Bella  full  of  gratitude  and  afTection,  and  not  now  in 
the  least  fear  of  this  figure  of  masculine  majesty. 


BELLA  275 

"Good-by,"  she  said,  before  Pendlip's  own  bow- 
fronted  presence.  "But  no.  Of  course  it's  not  good- 
•  by.  I  shall  see  you  again  to-morrow,  shan't  I ! " 

The  question  resurrected  all  the  host  of  Pendlip's 
buried  difficulties.  The  finality  of  this  meeting  stood 
spectrally  revealed.  His  mouth  accumulated  creases. 

"  I'm  afraid,"  he  began.  Bella's  eye  grew  round  and 
serious.  The  Poet  cut  into  Pendlip's  sentence.  "  What 
— you  don't  mean  to  say  you're  going?" 

"  I  fear  so,"  Pendlip  answered.  "  Must  get  back  to 
town  to-morrow." 

Bella  emitted  the  most  mournful  "O  my!"  The 
Poet  plunged  into  friendly  expostulation.  "But  you 
can't.  You  mustn't " 

"  He  must  see  mamma  first,  mustn't  he !  "  cried  Bella. 

It  was  scarcely,  perhaps,  what  the  Poet  had  intended. 
He  did  not  take  up  the  suggestion  with  promptitude, 
and  Pendlip,  who  winced  at  it,  drew  an  omen  from  the 
sign.  "  Well,  well,"  said  he,  and  put  an  end  to  the  dis- 
cussion with  a  suggestion  of  infinality.  "We'll  see. 
We  can  talk  about  that  later.  You'll  be  here  at  eight  ? " 
The  Poet  assured  him:  "With  pleasure."  Bella  still 
stood  before  the  portly  form,  her  brow  on  a  level  with 
the  gold  watch-chain.  Again  Pendlip  took  her  little 
hand  in  his,  and  said :  "  Good-by."  She  breathed  a 
wistful  "  Good-by  "  in  return,  and  pleaded :  "  You  won't 
go  away  to-morrow,  will  you !  "  Pendlip  smiled :  "  Oh, 
well,  well,  well !  "  And  then,  misinterpreting  a  move- 
ment of  his,  the  girl  lifted  up  a  frank  smooth  cheek, 
browner  now  than  when  the  Poet  first  beheld  it.  Only 
for  an  instant  did  Pendlip  debate  whether  to  acknowl- 
edge or  ignore  the  action.  Then  he  lowered  his  tower- 
ing shoulders  and  did  the  man.  Bella  put  both  her  arms 
around  the  neck  inclined  to  her,  and  kissed  with  a 
vehement  affection  that  surprised  the  recipient.  For 


276  BELLA 

some  reason  best  known  to  inscrutable  Providence  or 
the  wisdom  of  our  mother  Nature — certainly  not  clearly 
to  Pendlip's  self — the  act  produced  an  uncomfortable 
sensation  behind  his  eyelids  as  if  perhaps — though  he 
hoped  not — in  the  course  of  his  journey  some  engine- 
grit  had  lodged  in  them.  He  said :  "  There,  there,"  and 
patted  paternally  the  girl's  shoulder  with  his  broad  hand, 
and  did  not  look  at  the  Poet  when  she  let  go  her  hold 
of  him. 

And  when  his  guests  were  gone,  he  tucked  his  hands 
under  his  coat  behind  him,  and  confronted  the  window 
for  quite  five  minutes ;  staring  out  upon  a  scene  of  soft 
and  glowing  enchantment,  without  registering  an  item 
of  its  beauty;  pondering  these  things  that  had  come  to 
pass  and  the  unknown  things  to  come.  His  eyeglasses 
balanced  on  his  nose  like  an  apothecary's  scales ;  one 
eyebrow  pushed  a  range  of  furrows  up  to  his  temple; 
the  other  made  a  lowering  shade  for  the  eye  beneath; 
his  underlip  protruded  like  a  tongue.  He  did  not  look 
lovely,  but  superlatively  thoughtful.  "  What's  a  man 
to  make  of  it?"  he  asked  himself  at  last.  "Is  the 
whole  business  smoke?  Damme,  if  it  wasn't  for  James 
Ronsome,  I  could  almost  believe  that  Rachel's  right." 


XXXVIII 

T>  ARELY  two  hours  later,  in  the  same  room,  the  Poet 
*J  destroyed  with  ruthless  hand  the  white  bishop's 
miter  marking  his  place  at  table,  and  drew  the  napkin 
across  his  knees  in  obdurate  starched  squareness. 
Pendlip,  adjusting  himself  to  his  complete  satisfaction 
in  the  chair  opposite,  with  one  eye  on  the  menu  and  the 
other  on  the  wine-list,  called  out  to  the  Poet  for  his 
choice  in  liqueurs,  and  held  mysterious  colloquy  with  the 
white-faced  waiter,  stooping  to  the  gentleman's  left  ear 
with  a  respectful  knuckle  on  the  table  corner,  and  point- 
ing out  the  significances  of  the  wine-list  with  a  hand 
clasped  about  a  serviette.  Each  word  of  Pendlip's  drew 
him  down  to  the  patron's  ear,  bending  him  from  the 
waist  as  if  he  worked  by  means  of  bell-wire.  What- 
ever he  had  to  say,  issued  from  him  more  like  breath 
than  voice;  he  seemed  to  serve  a  mourner,  whose  re- 
cent sorrow  must  be  spared  unnecessary  speech.  At 
each  order  he  flicked  the  corner  of  the  table  with  his 
napkin  before  returning  to  the  perpendicular  once  more, 
and  melted  from  sight  on  errands  like  spring  snow. 
In  the  room  itself  he  heard  nothing  but  what  was 
directly  addressed  to  him,  when  a  whisper  sufficed; 
keeping  his  eye  expertly  from  collision  with  the  glances 
of  those  he  served;  obedient  to  the  fundamentals  of  his 
calling,  that  a  waiter's  eye  should  see  all  but  be  seen 
by  none.  Otherwise — if  a  waiter  may  be  admitted  a 
fitting  subject  for  speculation — he  bore  the  semblance 
of  a  married  man  to  whom  domestic  suffering  was  not 

277 


278  BELLA 

unknown,  and  the  hand  that  poured  the  foaming  drink 
of  Dionysus  into  Pendlip's  cup,  was  not  without  a  care- 
worn look  about  its  veins,  as  if  it  knew  to  nurse  and 
chastise  youth,  and  even  propel  the  doleful  bassinet. 

The  meal  ran  its  course  comfortably  enough.  The 
intellectual  pace  was  easy;  a  child  might  have  kept  up 
with  it.  The  fire  of  conversation  was  mainly  fed  by 
small  coal.  Pendlip  told  the  tale  about  Dr.  Johnson 
and  the  leg  of  mutton,  that  the  Poet  first  laughed  at 
when  he  came  home  from  his  first  term  at  school,  and 
recalled  a  dozen  occasions  when  Pendlip  had  told  it 
better.  For  the  older  man  did  not  desire  too  big  a 
blaze  at  present,  at  which  to  warm  the  palms  of  friend- 
ship, lest  under  influence  of  its  comfortable  flame  duty 
might  find  her  task  too  hard.  Each  smile  shared  with 
the  Poet  now,  seemed  to  Pendlip's  super-conscience 
base;  each  jest  at  heart  a  traitor.  For,  every  laugh 
contributed  to  Pendlip's  trouble  and  perplexity,  and 
lent  the  force  of  a  further  falsehood  to  the  mounting 
score  of  the  Poet's  deception.  When  Pendlip  reminded 
himself  that  all  this  dissimulating  edifice  of  their  meal 
must  ere  long  be  demolished,  and  reduced  to  debris,  he 
grew  abstracted,  and  applied  the  wine-glass  nervously 
to  his  lips.  He  had  an  uneasy  consciousness  of  taking 
advantage  of  the  boy;  decoying  him  thus  with  a  feigned 
fair  face  into  the  meshes  of  the  nest  spread  for  him, 
and  wished  now  he  had  been  frank  enough  to  speak 
at  first  and  had  not  made  the  difficulties  of  both  sides 
harder  by  protraction.  Time  and  again,  profiting  by 
the  waiter's  absence,  he  had  it  on  the  tip  of  his  tongue 
to  blurt  out  his  confession  and  be  done  with  it :  "  Look 
here,  my  boy,"  and  so  on  to  "  Well,  well,  I  say  no 
more."  But  on  each  occasion — in  the  face  of  an  im- 
pulse so  strong  that  it  shook  the  wine-glass  lifted  in 
preface  to  what  should  follow,  he  let  himself  be  diverted 


BELLA  279 

by  the  most  trivial  word  or  action  on  the  Poet's  part. 
His  purpose  seemed  imbued  with  the  quality  ot  a  sun- 
beam, that  can  travel  millions  of  miles  and  in  the  end 
be  turned  and  thwarted  by  a  mirror. 

Here,  at  such  close  quarters,  all  Ronsome's  philos- 
ophy was  confounded.  This  rumor,  so  reasonable  in 
London,  showed  incredible  at  Spathorpe— for  all  he 
could  not  doubt  the  truth  of  it.  He  looked  and  mar- 
veled at  the  Poet's  blameless  face,  seeking  in  vain  over 
that  unblemished  countenance  for  some  visible  grub-hole 
to  mark  the  evil  at  the  Poet's  core.  And  by  that  very 
reason  his  tongue  seemed  tied.  He  feared  to  cast  the 
first  stone  at  such  a  surface  of  plate-glass  hypocrisy, 
for  what  should  follow;  the  crash;  the  awful  ruination 
and  collapse  of  all  this  smiling  frontage ;  the  stammer- 
ings; the  expostulations;  the  lies  and  falsehoods,  even, 
reared  up  in  temporary  barricade  to  screen  the  assailed 
from  the  assailant,  and  doing  that  irreparable  damage 
against  which  James  Ronsome  had  warned  him.  So 
the  courses  passed  by. 

They  talked  of  Mrs.  Pendlip  and  of  Daisy.  The 
Poet,  with  a  frankness  that  lent  embarrassment  to  the 
task  before  his  host,  sang  full-throatedly  his  Spathorpe 
days  and  doings.  All,  that  is,  save  one — and  that  one 
Richard  Pendlip  grimly  noted.  The  name  Bella  came 
frequently  upon  the  Poet's  lips,  but  that  other— though 
they  spoke  her  once  or  twice  without  emphasis — passed 
through  his  discourse  chiefly  under  cover  of  the  plural 
pronoun,  shading  her  like  a  parasol.  "We,"  did  this 
or  that ;  "  we,"  went  here  or  there.  Occasionally,  as  a 
matter  of  differentiation,  though  unexplained,  the  Poet 
made  use  of  the  qualifying  "all,"  to  express  Mrs. 
Dysart's  presence.  "  We  all  went  to  the  theater,"  "  We 
all  took  tea  at  Wehrli's."  But  of  any  more  elaborate 
allusion  to  Mrs.  Dysart  there  was  none.  The  signifi- 


280  BELLA 

cance  of  the  silence  pricked  Pendlip  like  a  pin,  con- 
firming his  worst  fears.  "  Ronsome's  right.  Rachel's 
wrong,"  he  told  himself,  when  Mrs.  Dysart  passed 
ominously  in  the  plural.  And  then,  perhaps,  some  out- 
burst of  laughter  on  the  Poet's  part,  some  open  refer- 
ence to  Cromwell  Lodge  and  Bella,  caused  him  to  shape 
a  perplexed  "  Damme,  I  can't  make  the  fellow  out  a  bit. 
Is  it  Ronsome  or  Rachel,  after  all  ?  " 

Cheese  and  dessert  gave  way  to  the  graceful  fra- 
grance of  coffee.  Pendlip  lit  his  cigar.  The  white- 
faced  waiter  waftily  withdrew.  They  toyed  with  the 
stems  of  their  liqueur  glasses.  There  came  a  lull  in  the 
conversation;  a  gap  between  words,  widening  precipit- 
ously, and  Pendlip  saw  before  him  an  abyss.  Whose 
bosom  holds  a  secret  dreads  silence  most  of  all,  for  at 
such  a  moment  mere  thoughts  acquire  voices  and  seem 
to  shout  from  the  brain.  Pendlip's  head  ran  full  of 
them.  He  coughed  a  wanton  cough,  feigning  its  cause 
in  the  smoke  of  his  cigar.  Once  or  twice  during  the 
meal  the  Poet  had  looked  at  him  with  a  face  of  sudden 
inquiry,  hastily  parried.  All  at  once  the  look  framed 
itself  anew,  and  gathered  to  a  head  of  speech :  "  By 
the  way — "  It  was  the  crisis.  This  time  Pendlip  knew 
his  hour  was  at  hand.  He  tightened  his  lips  over  the 
cigar,  and  the  end  of  it  glowed  red-hot  to  his  long- 
drawn  inhalation.  His  eye  converged  to  the  fiery  center 
beyond  his  nose.  After  awhile  he  approached  two 
fingers  circuitously  to  his  lips  and  transferred  the  Ha- 
vana to  their  fork.  A  volume  of  liberated  smoke 
poured  out  in  pursuit  of  it. 

"  By  the  way — did  you  say  there  was  some  business 
to  discuss  ?  " 

Pendlip  knocked  the  ashen  head  of  his  cigar  against 
the  coffee-saucer.  "  I  did." 

He  had  not  wished  his  words  terse;  had  tried,  in- 


BELLA 


281 


deed,  to  utter  them  with  a  reflection  of  the  Poet's  smile, 
but  despite  intention  they  left  his  lips  divorced  from 
the  geniality  he  meant  to  incorporate  with  them.  No 
helpful  glimmer  of  intelligence  shone  in  the  Poet's  face. 
The  smile  was  still  the  boy's  smile,  as  much  friendly  as 
inquiring. 

Still,  when  Pendlip  sucked  deliberately  at  his  cigar 
again,  he  asked:  "What  business  is  it?"  Pendlip  low- 
ered the  cigar  and  looked  at  him  a  moment. 

"  Can  you  guess  ?  " 

The  Poet  shook  his  head.  "  I'm  no  good  at  guess- 
ing. Is  it  Hewitson's?" 

Pendlip  thought:  "Is  it  ignorance  or  obstinacy?" 
Aloud  he  said :  "  No,  no.  It's  not  Hewitson,  James  and 
Company.  (I  fancy  we  shall  see  an  improvement  in 
their  next  half-year's  account.  The  last  lock-out  did 
them  a  lot  of  harm.  These  trades-unions  are  the  devil.) 
No,  it's  not  Hewitson,  James  and  Company."  He 
paused. 

The  Poet  said  to  himself:  "Why,  this  preamble? 
What  business  is  it  ?  "    And  then  his  old  hypothesis  of 
the  telegram  flashed  back  upon  him.    "  It  can't  be — 
Aloud,  his  words  differed  from  his  thoughts  to  the  same 
extent  as  Pendlip's. 

"Anything  important?"  he  asked  carelessly. 

"  If  I  had  not  thought  so,  I  should  not  be  here." 

"  You  came  on  purpose  for  that  ? " 

"Largely.  Partly.  That  and  other  things.  That 
principally.  Yes.  That— since  you  ask  me."  Thoughts 
of  Ronsome  and  his  wife  Rachel  rendered  Pendlip's 
policy  unsteady. 

The  Poet  subscribed :  "  Oh,"  and  after  a  moment : 
"  Tell  me  what  it  is." 

"  You  have  no  idea  ?  " 

"  Not  the  least."    But  to  his  conscience  he  admitted 
19 


282  BELLA 

the  falsehood  here.  He  said  to  himself  incredulously: 
"  By  gad !  It's  that  after  all,"  and  by  consequence  dis- 
played more  carelessness  and  less  perception.  And  yet 
his  acting  must  have  been  creditable,  for  Pendlip — 
gaining  courage  through  this  procrastination — scruti- 
nized the  .boy  keenly  across  his  cigar,  and  said  to  him- 
self :  "  I  believe  he  hasn't.  Is  Rachel  going  to  be  right, 
after  all?" 

"  You'll  acquit  me  of  interference,  I  hope,  my  boy," 
he  said. 

The  Poet  responded  with  an  immediate  "  Certainly, 
sir,"  employing  the  old  title  of  respect  to  mark  ack- 
nowledgment of  Pendlip's  authority  and  assure  him  of 
a  deference  still  owed  and  cheerfully  subscribed. 
"  There's  nobody  with  a  better  right  to  speak  to  me 
than  you.  As  for  interference,  the  word  doesn't  exist 
for  me  where  you  are  concerned.  Don't  hesitate  to  say 
whatever  you  may  have  to  say."  To  himself  he  added : 
"  What  the  hangment  is  it  going  to  be  ?  " 

"  Why,  true,  true,"  Pendlip  acknowledged,  mollified 
by  the  boy's  tribute,  coming  thus  on  the  top  of  sus- 
picions and  champagne.  "  Perhaps  you  may  tell  me 
it's  not  my  business.  Well,  well,  perhaps  it  isn't.  But 
I  speak  only  for  your  good.  Everybody's  business  is 
anybody's  business,  and  when  it  comes  to  anybody's 
business  I  think  it's  as  much  my  business  as  another's. 
I  can't  keep  silence  when  everybody  else  is  talking." 

This  time,  thought  he,  the  fellow  surely  cannot  fail 
to  blink  with  this  flash  of  truthfulness  in  his  eyes. 
"  Now  do  you  understand  what  business  I  allude  to  ?  " 
he  demanded. 

The  Poet  answered :  "  No  better  than  before."  It 
is  true  his  smile  had  left  him  now,  but  not  his  facial 
sincerity.  "  Unless  you  mean  that  people  are  talking 
about  me?" 


BELLA  283 

Pendlip  answered  briefly:  "They  are." 
"  I  don't  understand  what  in  the  world  they  can  have 
to  say." 

"  For  one  thing  .  .  ." 
"Yes." 

'"  They  say  your  friendships  are  not  discreet." 

"Which  friendships?" 

"Your  Spathorpe  friendships." 

"  I  have  but  one." 

"  That  is  the  one." 

"What!  Bella  Dysart?"  He  knew  and  recognized 
his  slight  deception  in  tendering  first  the  name  he  was 
sure  would  be  rejected. 

"  I  mean  her  mother." 

"Mrs.  Dysart?" 

"  Yes." 

"  Oh !  "  The  word  was  not  so  much  an  interjection  as 
a  momentary  resting  place  for  the  voice.  The  Poet's 
smile  came  back  with  it,  less  open  than  before,  as  if  it 
wrapped  a  slightly  bitter  kernel.  "  I  did  not  think  I 
was  of  so  much  interest  to  everybody." 

Pendlip  said :  "  Damme,  Rupert.  People  have  eyes 
and  tongues.  The  world  must  see  and  talk."  He 
thought  of  Ronsome.  "  Remember,  boy,  I  have  not 
come  here  to  abuse  you.  I  bring  no  recriminations, 
no  expostulations,  no  show  of  authority.  You  are  your 
own  master.  Boys  will  be  boys.  I've  been  a  boy  my- 
self." (The  Poet  thought:  "When?")  "  But  I  can't 
hear  what  I  have  heard  and  give  no  warning.  I'd 
rather  you  should  blame  me  for  overstepping  my  duty 
than  neglecting  it." 

"And  what  have  you  heard?" 

"What  was  I  likely  to  hear?" 

"  Heaven  knows." 

"  Come !  "  said  Pendlip,  disturbed  by  this  blank  ob- 


284  BELLA 

tuseness  on  the  Poet's  part.  "  Let's  be  open  with  one 
another.  You  can't  deny  you  are  always  with  this 
woman." 

"  '  This  woman  '  ?  Is  that  what  Everybody  calls 
her?" 

"  It  is." 

"  And  who  is  Everybody.  He  has  a  name.  What 
is  it?" 

"That  doesn't  matter." 

"  To  me  it  matters  a  great  deal.  Everybody  may 
prove  to  be  no  friend  of  mine." 

"  On  the  contrary,  the  Everybody  in  question  is  a 
friend  of  yours." 

"Very  well — if  you  don't  care  to  trust  me.  I  sup- 
pose you  were  told  in  confidence.  That  is  the  weapon 
friends  chiefly  make  use  of  to  stab  one  another." 

Pendlip  demurred :  "  No  stabbing,  Rupert,  no  stab- 
bing at  all.  You  misjudge  the  motive.  It  was  Ronsome 
told  me,  if  you  must  know." 

"Ronsome?" 

"Yes." 

"  You  surprise  me.  How  does  Ronsome  come  into 
the  business  ? " 

"  He  has  been  in  Spathorpe." 

"Recently?" 

"  The  past  week-end." 

"  And  saw  me  ?  " 

"  Frequently." 

"  And  never  spoke !     Never  declared  himself !  " 

"  Well,  well.  I  don't  blame  him.  After  all,  Rupert, 
you  could  scarcely  expect  it." 

"  Scarcely  expect  it  ?  Why  in  the  world  not  ?  What 
has  Ronsome  done  that  he  thinks  I  have  cause  to  be 
ashamed  of  him  ?  " 


BELLA 


285 


"  Look  here,  Rupert.    All  the  years  I  knew  you  as 
a  boy,  you  never  once  told  me  a  falsehood." 
.      The  Poet  broke  in:    "Yes  I  did.    Twice  at  least,  to 
my  remembrance.     Probably  more." 

Pendlip  said,  "  Well,  well.  Twice.  That's  not  what 
I  mean.  That's  nothing.  I  mean  as  a  general  thing. 
Come  now,  on  your  honor,  boy.  Is  this  thing  true  or 
false?" 

"Is  what  thing  true  or  false?" 

"The  thing  people  say  about  you.  Is  it  true  you 
are  keeping  this  woman  ? " 

Now,  for  the  first  time,  Pendlip  saw  the  unmistak- 
able consequences  of  enlightenment.  Whether  his  shaft 
pierced  innocence  or  guilt,  there  was  no  doubt  the  head 
was  struck  well  home.  The  smile  drained  imperceptibly 
from  the  Poet's  lips,  leaving  only  its  conformation  be- 
hind. So  this,  he  told  himself  incredulously,  was  the 
conundrum  solved  at  last;  the  cause  at  the  back  of 
Pendlip's  telegram.  He  had  scarcely  bargained  for  a 
blow  so  blunt.  For  awhile,  with  the  square  impress  on 
his  forehead,  he  could  only  stare  at  the  administrator 
of  it. 

"  Is  that  what  they  say  ?  " 

"Yes."  There  came  a  pause.  "Well.  You  don't 
deny  it?" 

"  Is  it  necessary  to  deny  it  ?  " 

"Not  unless— not  unless—"  He  sought  refuge  in 
appeal.  "  Don't  tell  me  it's  true,  Rupert." 

"Absolutely  false." 

Pendlip  looked  at  the  boy  and  drew  a  long  breath 
of  relief.  Rachel  was  right,  after  all.  What  news  for 
her! 

"Thank  God!" 

"What  for?" 


286  BELLA 

"  Because  it's  untrue." 

"  I  see  no  reason  to  thank  God  for  a  falsehood." 

"  Well,  well — perhaps  not.    I  am  no  theologian." 

"  Ronsome  knew  this  when  he  was  in  Spathorpe 
last  week?  And  never  spoke!  I  see,  I  was  the  dis- 
reputable fox-terrier  of  a  friend,  on  the  loose  miles 
away  from  home,  and  he  was  afraid  I  might  attach 
myself  to  his  heels.  Is  that  it?  Still,  I  think  he  might 
have  given  me  a  word." 

"  If  Ronsome  had  thought  there  was  a  word  to 
give,"  Pendlip  took  up,  "  he  would  have  given  it,  Ru- 
pert, you  may  be  sure.  But  Ronsome  thought —  Why, 
confound  it,  boy!  What  could  he  think?  He  thought 
what  everybody  else  thought.  You  made  no  secret  of 
it.  You  were  always  with  her.  And  then — her  repu- 
tation, too.  You  know  what  she  is." 

"  What  she  is !  "  the  Poet  repeated,  with  a  sudden 
contraction  of  his  brows.  "What  do  you  mean?  What 
is  she?" 

Pendlip,  who  had  been  balancing  his  pince-nez  with 
a  judicial  right  hand,  slipped  the  glasses  on  his  nose 
and  peered  over  them  in  astonishment. 

"  Surely — you  don't  need  to  ask  that !  " 

"  On  the  contrary,  I  do  need  to  ask  it.  Mrs.  Dysart 
is  a  lady.  I  know  that.  What  else  does  Everybody 
say  she  is  ?  " 

"  Good  Lord !  "  cried  Pendlip,  spilling  the  neglected 
cigar  ash  over  his  shirt  front.  "  It's  incredible.  Do 
you  tell  me  you've  been  making  a  friend  of  the  woman 
all  this  time  without  knowing  a  word  about  her! 
Haven't  you  been  horribly  indiscreet?  You  know  what 
sort  of  people  come  to  Spathorpe  in  the  season,  and 
yet  you  go  and  pick  a  woman  up  without  inquiry,  and 
let  her  play  ducks  and  drakes  with  your  name !  "  He 
saw  the  growing  tension  of  the  Poet's  face,  and  broke 


BELLA 


287 


off  suddenly  to  beg:  "  Forgive  me,  boy.  It's  not  anger, 
but  zeal.  Your  good  name  is  as  much  to  me  as  my 
.own.  Mrs.  Dysart— well,  well.  I  say  no  more.  You 
know  what  she  is.  She's  a  woman  of  easy  morals." 

"Who  told  you  this  about  her?  Ronsome?"  The 
Poet's  voice  betrayed  a  certain  hardening  due  to  con- 
trol. 

"  Ronsome  told  me.     Yes." 
"Where  did  Ronsome  get  it  from?" 
"Everybody.      I    fear    the   thing's    only   too   true, 
Rupert." 

"  As  true  about  her  as  the  other  story  about  me  ? " 
"Yes.  Yes.  But  the  woman's  known.  Her  char- 
acter's common  property.  Ronsome's  spoken  to  half  a 
dozen  men  about  her.  They  all  tell  him  the  same. 
There's  no  denying  it.  Damme,  Rupert,  did  you  see 
nothing  ?  Do  you  mean  you  never  even  had  a  suspicion  ? 
You've  passed  hours  alone  with  her.  If  I  believe  your 
innocence,  who  else  is  there  that  will?  Who's  her 
husband?  What  is  he,  and  where  is  he?  Who  are  her 
people?  Who  are  her  friends?  What's  she  doing  at 
Spathorpe  with  nobody  but  her  daughter?  Why,  surely, 
boy,  the  thing's  as  palpable  as  this  cigar." 

Ay!  It  was  palpable  enough  presented  thus.  All 
these  questions  were  questions  that  had  troubled  spec- 
trally the  Poet's  mind,  and  been  laid  by  the  kind  of 
faith  whose  sacrament  is  Beauty;  or,  if  not  laid,  raised 
at  least  into  pious  mysteries,  articles  of  faith  to  doubt 
or  question  which  partook  of  heresy.  A  score  of  truths 
were  lit  up  in  the  Poet's  understanding  like  the  gas- 
jets  on  the  Parade,  leaking  invisibly  through  a  thousand 
ready  burners,  that  catch  communicating  light  from  a 
single  flame  and  string  a  necklet  of  fire  around  the  ter- 
race. Words,  looks,  gestures,  blazed  with  a  new  signifi- 
cance, touched  by  Pendlip's  smoking  torch.  And  if  the 


288  BELLA 

Poet  still  displayed  his  rapier,  and  contested  truth  with 
the  point  of  it,  he  fought  through  loyalty  and  not  con- 
viction of  the  Tightness  of  the  cause,  as  men  before 
have  brandished  arms  for  a  worthless  king.  Pendlip's 
voice,  heard  and  automatically  answered,  reached  him 
through  a  whole  cloud  of  his  own  reflections;  the  smoke 
from  a  mind  in  sudden  conflagration. 

"  The  wife  of  an  army  man,"  he  heard  Pendlip  tell 
him.  "  Heaven  knows  what's  got  him  now.  Ronsome 
has  been  told  he's  in  the  Argentine.  Believes  he  wasn't 
the  least  factor  in  the  woman's  present  life — made  use 
of  her  to  propitiate  his  creditors,  and  engage  the  atten- 
tions of  dishonorable  friends  who  had  it  in  their  power 
to  make  his  fortune,  and  squandered  more  money  than 
ever  he  had,  and  hers  too,  upon  the  Stock  Exchange. 
Ronsome  knew  something  of  Dysart's  family  at  one 
time.  Says  they  were  all  painted  with  the  same  brush. 
There  was  a  divorce  case  too,  about  ten  years  ago. 
Ronsome  remembers  it.  Dysart  got  a  decree  nisi,  but 
it  wasn't  made  absolute.  There  was  collusion  with  his 
wife  and  the  co-respondent,  or  something.  The  Proctor 
intervened.  Oh!  a  clever,  unprincipled  woman.  You've 
been  thoroughly  deceived,  my  lad.  Well,  well,  I  say 
no  more.  Thank  God,  it's  no  worse.  Let  this  be  a 
lesson  to  you." 


XXXIX 

T>  UT  for  the  Poet  wider  issues  were  at  stake  than  the 
AJ  rectification  of  a  slander,  or  the  re-adjustment  of  a 
matter  of  morals,  or  the  mere  restoration  of  a  torn 
character.  There  were  things  he  could  not  explain  to 
Pendlip;  things  he  could  not  discuss.  He  needed  re- 
spite now,  and  privacy  where  he  could  sort  and  re- 
arrange his  thoughts,  free  of  influence  or  interruption. 
Grateful  though  he  felt  toward  the  elder  man  for  this 
timely  action,  he  sought  to  escape  his  admonitory  voice, 
as  a  sailor  draws  off  from  the  dirge-like  bell-buoy  that 
has  warned  him. 

The  Poet's  perplexity  drew  no  counsel  from  Pend- 
lip's  crude  materializing  of  the  situation  into  one  of 
mere  fact  and  substance;  seeing  in  this  tangle  of  fine 
soul-threads  no  more  than  a  cord-knot  to  be  cut  with  a 
knife.  "  Of  course,  you  won't  stay  any  longer  here. 
Now  that  the  woman's  unmasked  you'll  leave  Spathorpe 
at  once.  The  sooner  the  better.  Come  back  to  Dulwich 
with  me.  I  want  to  catch  the  luncheon  train  to-morrow 
morning.  We  can  travel  together.  Eh?  What?  You 
will?" 

The  Poet  said :  "  I  can't  say.  Very  likely  I  will.  I'll 
think  it  over." 

"  Think  it  over !  "  Pendlip  exclaimed,  with  a  glance 
of  unmitigated  misgiving.  "Why,  what  is  there  to 
think  over?  You  can't  stay  where  you  are,  after  this. 
The  sooner  you're  out  of  Spathorpe  the  better  for  all 

parties.    You  don't  mean ' 

289 


290  BELLA 

"Just  at  the  moment  I  mean  nothing,"  the  Poet 
made  answer.  "  But  this  has  been — well,  a  little  bit 
sudden  for  me.  I  want  to  get  accustomed  to  it.  That's 
all." 

"  Accustomed  to  it ! "  Pendlip  repeated  in  visible 
consternation.  "  What !  Accustomed  to  a  thing  like 
this!  Why,  you  ought  to  be  indignant  at  it.  I'd  like 
to  see  you  more  indignant  than  you  are.  You're  not 
going  at  once ! "  Pendlip  protested,  for  the  boy  had 
risen.  "  Come.  Sit  down  again.  There's  plenty  of 
time.  It's  not  ten  o'clock.  Let's  talk  the  business  over." 

The  Poet  stood  his  ground.  "If  you  don't  mind,  I 
think  I'd  rather  go.  I  don't  feel  much  like  talking, 

to-night "  Now  that  the  inevitable  bomb  was  burst, 

and  the  damage  done,  he  had  no  stomach  to  conduct 
Pendlip  over  the  ruins  in  order  that  curiosity  might 
peer  at  Mrs.  Dysart  and  her  daughter  through  these 
wrecked  and  devastated  walls.  It  wounded  him  to 
share  with  any  other  the  sight  of  the  altered  circum- 
stances of  his  friends;  to  hear  them  spoken  of  in  terms 
of  slight  or  pity,  that  he  could  not  resist,  and  yet  which 
to  countenance  seemed  like  betrayal  of  them  and 
treachery  to  his  self-esteem.  He  held  out  his  hand. 
Pendlip  saw  purpose  not  to  be  dissuaded,  and  gripped 
it  warmly. 

"  Well,  well ! "  he  said,  "  If  you  won't  really  stay— 
I  hope  I've  only  done  my  duty.  Believe  me  that  was 
the  only  thing  that  brought  me  here;  the  only  thing  I 
aim  to  do." 

The  Poet  answered :    "  I  am  very  sure  of  that." 

"  Why  then,  I  say  no  more,"  Pendlip  returned. 
"  You  know  me.  Richard  Pendlip's  no  stranger  to  you ; 
you're  no  stranger  to  him.  We've  done  our  duty  and 
said  our  say,  and  there's  no  bad  blood  betwixt  us." 

At  this  moment  of  premature  leave-taking,  his  mind 


BELLA 


291 


cast  hurriedly  on  all  sides  to  collect  and  redeem  the 
pledges  given  to  his  wife  and  Ronsome;  anxious  no  un- 
dertaking or  instruction  should  be  found  missing  from 
the  scroll  of  his  achievement  when  the  mental  roll-call 
came. 

"I  gave  you  Mrs.  Pendlip's  love,  my  boy?  Yes, 
yes.  And  Daisy's?  To  be  sure.  I  wasn't  to  forget 
Daisy's?  Of  course— she  knows  nothing  at  all  of  this, 
Rupert.  Not  a  word.  It  will  never  be  alluded  to. 
Make  your  mind  easy  on  that  score.  You  may  trust 
us  implicitly,  my  boy ! " 

He  would  have  liked  to  interpolate  one  of  his  wife's 
suggestive  phrases  illustrating  the  degree  of  the  girl's 
attachment :  "  She  is  devoted  to  you,  Rupert.  Wouldn't 
believe  a  single  wrong  word  of  you.  Yours  is  the  first 
letter  she  looks  for  in  the  morning.  I  mustn't  tell  you 
how  many  times  it's  read  during  the  day."  But  his 
courage  stuck  at  this;  moreover,  he  had  the  sense  to 
realize  how  far  away  this  daughter  was  from  the  Poet's 
mind  at  the  moment.  In  place  of  what  he  would  have 
said,  and  did  not,  he  wrung  the  Poet's  hand,  suggesting 
every  species  of  friendship  and  sincerity,  sympathy, 
commiseration,  pride  and  hope;  ringing  interminable. 
"  Well-well's "  from  his  massive  head,  as  if  he  were 
the  noble  draught-horse  in  a  bell  cart. 

"  Mrs.  Pendlip  said  I  was  to  be  sure  and  bring  you 
back  with  me,  my  boy.  We  mustn't  disappoint  her. 
She's  stuck  up  for  you  from  the  first.  Said  it  was  all 
a  mistake,  and  she  knew  you  better  than  James  Ron- 
some,  that  never  nursed  a  baby  in  his  life,  or  washed 
anybody's  face  but  his  own.  Well,  well !  Thank  good- 
ness she's  right.  Come  back  with  me  and  tell  her  so 
yourself,  Rupert.  Grayhurst  is  always  your  home,  boy. 
Grayhurst  is  always  your  home.  That's  Mrs.  Pendlip's 
message— one  of  'em— I  was  to  be  sure  and  give  you 


292  BELLA 

that."  He  clung  tenaciously  to  the  Poet's  hand,  re- 
luctant to  let  go  his  tenure  lest  some  point  of  policy 
might  still  be  better  urged,  or  some  ampler  compliance 
on  the  Poet's  part  persuaded. 

"  Well,  well.  Till  to-morrow.  I'd  like  to  catch  the 
luncheon  train.  If  you  can't  be  ready,  I'll  wait.  What 
time  will  you  see  me  in  the  morning  ?  " 

He  elicited  no  answer  of  the  sort  he  wanted.  The 
Poet  only  said :  "  I'll  see.  I'll  let  you  know.  Thank 
you  for  all  your  care  and  trouble.  I  think  you'll  know 
how  grateful  I  am,  even  if'  I  don't  show  it  very  well. 
I'm  sorry  to  have  brought  you  over  on  a  business  like 
this." 

The  hand,  long  held,  had  to  be  relinquished  at  last. 
Pendlip  walked  with  him  to  the  door,  and  returned 
with  the  gnawing  consciousness  of  a  task  but  incom- 
pletely done.  Something  in  the  Poet's  demeanor  dis- 
satisfied him;  the  more  so  as  the  more  he  thought  upon 
it.  Suspicions,  for  awhile  torpid,  became  alive  again ;  a 
writhing  scorpionic  brood.  He  went  back  to  his  apart- 
ment and  surveyed  over  dubious  glasses  these  relics  of 
a  dismal  feast,  multiplying  well-well's  in  his  mind,  and 
prolonging  the  interview  with  words  infinitely  more 
purposeful  and  more  wise  than  any  he  could  console 
himself  with  having  uttered.  Wisdom  seemed  alight  in 
him.  Now  that  the  Poet  was  gone,  his  brain  was  irradi- 
ated with  it.  Confidence  began  to  quaver.  He  suc- 
cumbed to  self-reproach. 

"  Why  didn't  I  keep  him  longer  ?  '  No,  no !  I  in- 
sist, boy.  Let's  have  this  matter  settled  before  you  go. 
I  have  a  right  to  ask  it  of  you.  You  owe  me  some- 
thing. If  this  report's  all  wrong,  prove  it.  Give  me 
a  token.  Say  you'll  leave  Spathorpe  to-morrow.  If 
you  aren't  willing  to  do  that — be  damned  to  these 
protestations.' " 


BELLA  293 

He  went  to  the  window  and  peered  out  upon  the 
glittering  array  of  lights  as  if  his  desires  sought  to  find 
the  Poet  in  their  flickering  company,  and  trace  his 
footsteps. 

"Where's  he  going  now?  Why  didn't  I  get  his 
word  he  wouldn't  see  her.  Not  ten  o'clock  yet.  What 
on  earth  does  he  mean  to  do  with  his  time?  He  can't 
be  going  to  bed.  That's  not  Rupert's  way! 

"  What's  the  name  of  the  house  ?  By  Jove !  I've  a 
good  mind — James  Ronsome  did  it.  It  would  serve 
the  fellow  right  if  he's  been  deceiving  me. 

"  All  this  time,  and  vows  he  never  tumbled  to  it ! 
A  woman  who  has  only  her  beauty  to  live  on!  Am  I 
to  believe  that?  Would  James  Ronsome  believe  that? 
Would  anybody  believe  that?  He.  swore  he  wasn't 
financing  her.  Ay!  But  how  far  has  it  gone  in  other 
directions?  How  far  was  it  meant  to  go?  Has  she 
been  playing  the  fine  lady  to  him,  and  fooling  the  fellow 
with  a  whole  pack  of  lies  and  false  pretences?  Surely 
he  hasn't  been  taking  her  seriously!  Damme,  I  should 
have  asked  him.  '  Look  here,  my  boy.  On  your  word 
now.  How  far  have  you  got  with  her?  What's  your 
footing  ? ' 

"  It  can't  be  " — the  thought  dismayed  him—"  it  can't 
be  he  didn't  know  until  I  told  him  that  this  woman's 
in  the  market,  and  now  has  half  a  mind  to  go  and 
bid  for  her!  'Think  it  over!'  Why!  What  else  is 
there  to  think  over?  'Think  it  over'— when  he  knows 
what  she  is !  Why !  I  believe  he's  capable  of  it,  too. 
He's  told  me  nothing.  I  know  as  little  now  as  when  I 

came/' 

Thus,  pacing  his  apartment  from  wall  to  wall 
ard  Pendlip  argued  his  way  back  to  pessimism,  smolder- 
ing and  self-reproachful,  and  anticipating  little  from 
morrow. 


294  BELLA 

"  A  letter !  "  he  decided  to  himself.  "  Depend  upon 
it.  That's  all  I  shall  get  for  my  pains.  '  Sorry  can't 
catch  the  10  : 47.  Coming  later.'  Oh,  I  know  these  fel- 
lows. There's  no  pulling  'em  out  of  the  arms  of  an 
unprincipled  woman,  once  she's  got  hold  of  them. 

"  Well,  well !  I've  done  my  best,  however  bad  it  is. 
Perhaps  Ronsome  couldn't  have  done  any  more.  It's 
easy  for  him.  All  he  has  to  do  now  is  to  go  by  contra, 
and  tell  me  I  shouldn't  have  done  what  I  did,  and  why 
haven't  I  done  what  I  didn't." 

If  only  his  eye,  probing  every  now  and  then  the 
glittering  spaciousness  beyond  the  window,  could  have 
attached  itself  companion  to  the  Poet,  and  gone  with 
him  which  way  he  wended,  Pendlip  might  have  found 
still  further  cause  for  pessimism. 


XL 

"'•pHINK  it  over?"  cries  Pendlip  to  himself  out 
A  of  the  grim  certainty  of  his  unbelief.  "  Why ! 
There's  nothing  for  a  right-minded  fellow  to  think  over. 
He  might  as  well  tell  me  he'll  think  over  the  Ten  Com- 
mandments. I've  let  the  truth  into  him.  He  knows  his 
duty.  What's  there  to  think  over  now— but  whether  he 
means  to  do  it  ?  " 

And  yet  the  Poet  has  very  much  to  think  over,  for 
all  that. 

In  the  first  place,  he  has  not  been  frank  with  Pend- 
lip, for  morals  have  their  significant  fractions  as  well 
as  figures,  and  Pendlip  is  of  the  astute  order  of  man- 
hood that  calls  itself  plain  and  blunt  and  commonsense, 
and  sees  and  estimates  all  human  conduct  in  correspond- 
ing plain  large  numerals,  regarding  every  factor  below 
whole  numbers  as  inconsequent,  albeit  in  his  own  do- 
main of  business  there  is  not  the  smallest  decimal  but 
has  its  force,  and  a  sixteenth  or  a  thirty-second  in  the 
vicissitudes  of  a  share  shows  to  his  raking  eye  as 
prominent  as  the  magnified  shadows  at  sundown.  He 
can  no  more  appreciate  the  Poet's  real  self  than  he  can 
appreciate  his  poetry,  which  many  times  he  has  been 
led  to  with  the  best  of  prides,  esconced  in  his  large 
leather  reading-chair,  saying,  by  way  of  preface,  "  Let's 
see  what  we  can  make  of  it  this  time!"— and  always 
with  the  same  result.  "Yes,  yes.  The  fellow  seems 
to  have  some  beautiful  language.  It's  a  pity  he  can't 
express  himself  more  plainly.  I'm  hanged  if  I  know 
what  half  of  it  means." 

295 


296  BELLA 

All  those  intermediate  shades  of  feeling  that  scarcely 
have  a  language  for  their  expression;  those  impalpable 
transitions  of  mood;  those  subtle  enharmonic  modula- 
tions between  crude  right  and  wrong  that  make  the 
beauty  and  the  spaciousness  and  the  perplexity  of  a 
poet's  soul,  are  non-existent  for  Pendlip.  They  are  as 
impossible  of  reproduction  in  his  direct  nature  as 
Chopin's  nocturnes  on  a  glockenspiel.  In  place  of  un- 
derstanding, Pendlip  must  rely  on  indulgence;  which 
should  be  (though  it  rarely  is)  the  safeguard  of  ig- 
norance, to  be  lenient  toward  those  things  it  does  not 
understand.  In  the  matter  of  the  Poet's  verse,  this 
lenience  is  duly  displayed.  Pendlip  turns  the  pages  with 
a  puzzled  but  larely  benevolent  finger,  saying :  "  Well, 
well.  There  must  be  something  in  it,  I  suppose.  These 
critics  ought  to  know  what  they're  talking  about.  But 
poetry  isn't  for  plain  men  like  us,  that  have  never  been 
brought  up  to  it.  Let's  look  at  the  newspaper.  I'm 
more  used  to  that."  His  doubts  are  to  himself  alone; 
he  would  as  soon  think  of  depreciating  the  Poet's  value 
as  the  chances  of  a  company  in  whose  fortunes  he  is 
concerned.  But  toward  the  Poet's  conduct — that  is  in- 
finitely more  complex  and  more  difficult  to  understand, 
since,  unlike  his  verse,  it  has  not  been  composed  for 
the  public  intelligence — he  shows  far  less  indulgence. 
Nor  is  the  Poet  ignorant  of  it.  He  has  not  filled  the 
formal  role  of  son  to  Pendlip  in  the  past  without 
learning  the  brick-wall  boundaries  of  the  big  man's  na- 
ture; boundaries  that  enclose  conspicuous  virtues,  and 
shut  others  out.  In  the  Poet's  bosom,  deep  locked  away 
from  all  external  sight,  double-barred  behind  the  boy's 
deference  and  affection,  he  has  the  slight  inevitable  con- 
tempt of  all  impulsive,  fluid,  and  impassioned  youth  for 
the  rigidity  of  hide-bound  age.  Pendlip's  knowledge 
of  the  ways  of  youth  perished  largely  with  his  own ;  like 


BELLA  297 

his  knowledge  ol  the  classics  and  ancient  history.  To 
seek  enlightenment  from  him  on  the  dark  pages  of 
youth's  mind  were  as  futile  as  to  invoke  his  aid  upon  the 
text  of  Anacreon  or  Ovid. 

With  James  Ronsome  the  case  was  otherwise.  He 
had  grown  old  in  wisdom,  not  in  heart.  Experience 
of  life  had  annotated,  not  destroyed,  the  page  of  youth; 
of  whose  impulse  and  meaning  he  knew  far  more  than- 
wayward  youth  itself.  Had  he  stood  for  Pendlip  at 
this  juncture,  with  all  the  justificatory  right  and  title 
that  Pendlip  held,  there  would  have  been  opening  of 
confidences,  withdrawal  of  bolts,  a  disclosure  of  the 
Poet's  bosom.  Ronsome's  broad  toleration  was  to 
Pendlip's  propriety  what  a  free  and  open  park  is  to 
enclosed  grounds.  With  Ronsome  there  were  no  con- 
versational trespass-boards,  or  moral  man-traps  or 
startling  spring-guns  to  apprehend;  no  booming  inter- 
jections, no  disconcerting  looks  of  incredulity  and 
horror.  Ronsome's  epithets  and  Pendlip's  epithets, 
though  they  might  be  identical,  differed  as  widely  in 
the  respective  utterances  as  meats  in  the  cooking.  Pend- 
lip's "  Damme "  crackled  spontaneously  like  a  dry  log 
in  a  hot  fire;  Ronsome's,  more  deliberate,  would  have 
possessed  the  quality  of  an  amused  smile.  Pendlip's 
"  fool,"  however  leniently  uttered,  would  have  revealed 
something  of  the  heat  of  censure  by  which  it  had  been 
minted.  Ronsome's  would  have  lain  like  a  hand  on 
the  shoulders;  companionship  much  more  than  reproof; 
comforting  to  sustain  and  comfortable  to  acknowledge. 
"  Oh,  of  course,  I've  been  a  fool.  But  then— 

Before  such  a  one  as  Ronsome,  the  Poet  might  hav 
exposed  his  thoughts  without  reservation  or  fear 
if  the  wearer  of  the  distinguished  gray  felt  hat 
been  reluctant  with  his  counsel-though,  in  this  pre: 
phase  of  the  case  it  is  unlikely-at  least  he  would  have 


20 


298  BELLA 

lent  encouragement  to  words,  and  made  confidences  wel- 
come and  at  home,  like  the  friendly  watcher  of  a  task, 
whose  presence  renders  passive  help,  though  wisdom  be 
too  wise  to  interfere.  To  open  the  mind  before  Pendlip 
was  as  if  to  submit  some  manuscript  effusion  to  a  writ- 
ing master;  blind  to  all  but  the  scrupulous  formation  of 
letters,  and  the  strict  observance  of  the  established  laws 
of  penmanship.  Of  those  delicate  yet  tenacious  moral 
obligations,  those  nerves  and  veins  and  sinews  that 
thread  the  tissue  of  all  but  the  corruptest  conduct — and 
are  not  wholly  absent  there — Pendlip  would  have  had 
no  knowledge.  Healthy  tissue  must  be  cut  away  re- 
morselessly with  diseased;  the  whole  visible  ill  must  be 
removed  as  though  good  and  bad  were  separable  qual- 
ities, distinct  as  the  words  themselves,  of  which  no  part 
of  one  could  pass  into  the  substance  of  the  other. 

So,  filled  with  thoughts  he  might  not  utter,  the  Poet 
sought  to  be  alone  with  them.  He  knew,  not  less  than 
Pendlip,  how  much  remained  unsaid;  how  much  to 
touch  on;  and  feared  the  heavy  conversational  tread,  so 
fraught  with  danger  to  fine  feelings;  the  forced  con- 
fidence— only  alternative  to  the  flat  lie;  the  necessity  to 
declare  all  that  moral  contraband  his  mind  carried.  As 
he  passed  beyond  Pendlip's  door  along  the  carpeted  cor- 
ridor, he  was  sensible  of  a  curious  change  in  the  com- 
position of  external  life,  that  marked  his  altered  relation 
to  it.  He  had  come  this  evening,  despite  a  certain  sub- 
anxious  curiosity,  in  an  ebullient  mood ;  elate  and  vital ; 
sparkling  with  the  vintage  of  his  own  youth ;  aflush  with 
a  sort  of  conquest;  breast  to  breast  with  the  world,  as 
though  he  and  the  world  were  of  one  mold  and  stature, 
companions  and  co-equals  that  shared  each  other's  joys. 
He  passed  from  Pendlip's  presence  sustaining  the  bur- 
den of  a  mind,  in  place  of  what  the  punished  Titan 
bore.  The  world  and  he  were  almost  strangers;  no 


BELLA  299 

common  bond  of  happiness  united  them  now;  each  pur- 
sued his  separate  way,  regardless  of  the  other— yet  not 
regardless.    Conscious,  rather,  with  the  half-defiant  con- 
sciousness of  one-time  friendship  at  feud.    The  voice  of 
the  world  appeared  to  the  Poet  pitched  affrontively  high, 
as  if  to  reach  and  wound  him ;  its  ostentatious  pleasures 
seemed  to  enforce  themselves  maliciously  upon  his  no- 
tice.   The  report  of  a  champagne  cork,  amid  the  burst 
of  convivial  laughter,  caused  his  soul  to  wince  as  if  a 
gibe  had  been  aimed  at  it.     He  carried  himself  con- 
sciously higher,  animated  by  a  certain  proud  rebellion 
toward  this  disloyal  world ;  this  false  friend  that  showed 
so  fair  a  face  and  slandered  him.    There  was  a  babel 
of  voices  in  the  vestibule;  a  subdued  storm  of  conver- 
sation, rent  with  the  quick  lightning  of  treble  laughter 
and  rolling  bass  thunder,  that  drowned  the  plashy  music 
of  the  mimic  waterfall,  tumbling  from  ledge  to  ledge 
among  the  green   ferns  of  the  central   rockery.     He 
sensed  the  power  of  all  this  conversation  as  hostile  and 
destructive ;  merciless  machinery  for  the  manufacture  of 
malice  and  uncharitableness,  tearing  up  the  rags  of  truth 
to  make  fustian.     Through  processes  like  this  his  own 
reputation  had  passed,  was  passing  now,  perhaps;  would 
pass  again— for  verily  man  does  not  live  by  bread  alone. 
He  stalks  through  the  rhythmic  flutter  of  fans,  rest- 
less as  birds  in  an  aviary;  the  bare  white  throats  held 
up  here  and  there  to  stooping  masculine  eyes;  the  slen- 
der columns  of  neck,  put  forth  as  the  Poet  came  in 
sight,  with  the  gentle  insistence  of  swans,  waiting  i 
crumbs  on  the  lake  in  the  dell.    If,  in  the  past  h 
been  blind  to  all  the  evidences  spread  around 
makes  up  for  the  lack  this  night,  when  not  a  glance,  di- 
rected from  whatsoever  corner  but  finds  its  n 
strikes  him  like  an  arrow,  surely  aimed.    But  the  per 
verse  and  outrageous  pride  that  sustains  all  evildoers, 


300  BELLA 

comes  to  his  rescue  and  lends  him  a  demeanor  that 
looks  like  scorn.  These  curious  glances  do  not  touch 
confusion  in  him,  but  ignite  defiance.  He  rejects  them 
with  a  sense  of  lofty  scorn  for  narrow  righteousness; 
wishes  the  thing  they  think  of  him  more  palpable  in  his 
brow  and  person;  throws  up  his  chin;  walks  through 
them  with  high  disregard  like  a  young  demi-god  that 
scorns  to  tread  convention's  beaten  road,  but  is  a  prince 
of  the  trackless  hills  and  dizzy  pinnacles  and  mountain- 
peaks,  unsubject  to  the  narrow  laws  of  men.  The  mood 
lasts  until  the  agile  page  boys  fling  open  wide  the  doors 
that  impatient  consequence  may  have  room  to  pass.  But 
once  beyond,  and  underneath  the  open  sky,  this  spurious 
transitory  pride  lies  down  within  him.  He  becomes  but 
a  mortal,  much  engrossed  with  his  own  mind,  wrapped 
in  the  dark  folds  of  it;  walking  muffled  to  the  brow. 


XLI 

TTE  is  not  shocked;  he  is  not  wrathful;  he  is  not 

-••  -1  penitent;  bears  no  animosity;  nurtures  no  indig- 
nation; has  neither  reproaches  for  himself  nor  for  that 
other.  The  injury  to  reputation  hurts  him  least.  In 
the  suddenness  of  catastrophe  he  scarcely  even  notes  this 
scratch  to  character,  and  then  only  with  the  contemptu- 
ous regard  that  will  not  admit  pain  from  such  a  paltry 
wound.  He  is  more  amazed  with  his  own  blindness  than 
stunned  with  the  truth  so  palpable  he  has  not  seen. 
Like  a  player  in  the  old  hoodman  game,  set  to  an  ob- 
ject blindfold,  and  three  times  twisted  before  release,  he 
cannot  credit  with  the  wrapping  off  how  far  his  instinct 
of  direction  has  misguided  him.  Of  defence  he  can  at- 
tempt none,  either  of  himself  or  her.  Unbandaged  he 
sees  wonderingly,  but  full  well,  the  truth,  and  the  ex- 
tent of  his  own  divagation  from  it.  Not  for  nothing 
these  palpitations  in  her  presence;  these  hot  tempta- 
tions, cunningly  fed  with  smiles  and  soft  scents  and 
negligent  unconscious  touches;  these  careless  sighs, 
breathed  in  front  of  him,  that  caused  a  space  between 
the  subsiding  bosom  and  the  corsage,  sucking  down  his 
eyes  as  the  ebbing  tide  takes  seawrack  until  the  white 
flesh  returns  again  and  brimmed  up  to  fill  its  confines, 
and  the  cup  of  a  Poet's  temptation;  the  laughter,  low, 
insidious,  as  though  it  accused  his  desires  and  chal- 
lenged his  cowardice;  when  a  whole  woman's  empire 
trembled  perilously  before  him  as  if  it  were  but  a  single 

301 


302  BELLA 

raindrop  suspended  from  a  swaying  branch,  and  cry- 
ing :  "  Shake  me.  Shake  me.  You  dare  not." 

For  no.  He  had  not  dared.  That  secret  something, 
infinitely  feebler,  infinitely  stronger  than  desire,  had 
saved  him,  defrauded  her;  even  when,  casting  aside 
the  silent  armory  of  the  senses,  she  had  brought  her 
warfare  to  the  frontier  of  speech,  and  let  fall  sayings 
that  hinted  at  a  void  between  them ;  a  breach  in  the  com- 
pleteness of  his  content  that  she  knew  not  how  to  fill. 
"  I  have  played  to  you ;  I  have  sung  to  you ;  I  have 
talked  to  you.  Yet  I  know  if  I  turn  my  shoulders  for 
half  a  moment  you  will  take  the  opportunity  to  yawn. 
How  difficult  you  boys  are  to  entertain !  Tell  me  what 
more  I  can  do  to  please  you."  Even  when  she  said  this, 
lifting  her  face  up  to  his  from  the  piano,  so  that  she 
needed  only  to  rise,  or  he  to  stoop,  to  bring  their  lips  to- 
gether, he  avoided  encounter  with  her  words,  retreat- 
ing laughingly  before  the  sense  of  them. 

"  Nothing  more.  Less,  indeed,  if  you  would  not  al- 
together overwhelm  me.  My  gratitude  must  surely  be 
sincere,  since  it  expresses  itself  so  badly." 

Now  he  knows  for  what  they  were,  these  sighs  and 
words  and  tokens ;  then  but  suspected,  and  even  his  own 
suspicions  of  them  suspected  in  turn,  rather  than  that 
she  should  be  misjudged  upon  the  false  testimony  of  his 
troubled  senses.  What  Pendlip  tells  him  makes  these 
dark  uncertainties  all  plain,  but  the  truth,  that  Pendlip 
deems  a  solvent  for  every  difficulty,  serves  but  as  the 
starting-ground  for  problems,  not  the  settlement  of 
them.  What  has  been,  is  nothing;  what  is  to  be,  every- 
thing. Over  the  irrevocable  why  spill  tears!  This 
beautiful  woman  is  what  she  is ;  the  past  cannot  alter ; 
like  her  beauty,  it  can  only  fade.  All  this  history  of 
their  Spathorpe  days  is  chronicled  in  life's  blood,  that 
may  lose  color  through  the  agency  of  time,  but  little 


303 

•else ;  can  only  perish  utterly  with  the  mortal  vellum  on 
which  its  records  are  inscribed. 

If  the  drama  comprised  no  characters  beyond  these 
two ;  if  the  Poet's  obligations  began  and  ended  with  the 
second  of  them;  if  the  motive  were  no  more  than  the 
strife  between  desire  and  duty:  the  body  and  the  soul, 
then  it  were  susceptible  of  a  quick  ending,  whether  for 
weal  or  woe.    But  more  than  the  fortunes  of  these  par- 
ticipants is  pledged  in  it.    Another  destiny  hangs  trem- 
bling on  the  issue ;  other  happinesses,  far-reaching,  more 
remote,  depend  on  what  shall  follow.    This  hard  truth 
has  shown  the  Poet  a  second,  and  a  softer.    It  brings 
Bella  to  his  mind,  tenderly  and  sorrowfully,  with  an 
elegiac  beauty  that  moves  this  Poet's  breast  to  strange 
emotion.    What,  hereafter,  is  her  life  to  be?    What,  de- 
serted now,  may  prove  to  be  her  fate?  so  perilously 
beautiful ;  sa  deadly  placed.    She  is  but  a  child  in  years; 
in  spirit  less  than  in  those;  who  worships  him  with  a 
child's  affection,  and  is  beloved  by  him  with  a  quality 
—save  for  the  worldly  wisdom  that  clouds  it— not  less 
clarid  than  her  own.     The  very  freedom  of  their  de- 
lightful friendship  horrifies  him  as  a  portent  for  the 
future.    He  is  Pharisee  enough  to  think  himself  in  some- 
wise better  than  the  rest  of  men.    Translate  but  this  in- 
timacy into  terms  of  general  mankind,  and  see  with  what 
perils  it  is  fraught.    The  girl  stands  on  the  threshold  of 
life;  Nature,  alone,  must  shortly  whisper  in  her  ear  a 
waken  knowledge  of  suspected  wisdom;  ripen  her  wit! 
dangerous  impulses,  as  well  as  blood.    Innocence  is  b 
a  figment;  growth  both  spiritual  and  corporal  mvolves 
much  breaking  down  of  cells.    Purity,  at  best  is  but 
name    for    impurity    rightly   understood      Bella   mus 
grow;  Bella  must  burst  this  envelope  of  innocence  th 
dads  her  now;  part  with  old  purity  for  new ^sdorn 
confront  a  world  likely  to  show  her  all  the  less  mercy 


304  BELLA 

by  reason  of  her  greater  need  of  it,  and  exact  toll  of 
her  for  her  mother's  transgressions.  What  will  hap- 
pen then  to  this  lonely  flower  of  neglect,  growing  all 
unnoticed  now  like  the  modest  violet?  Will  not  her 
fragrance  betray  her?  Can  such  a  fair  and  unprotected 
flower  bloom  without  peril,  in  a  spot  exposed  to  the 
bleakest  winds  of  calumny  and  worse  than  calumny — 
cold,  bitter  truth? 

Alas!  The  Poet  thinks  not,  and  the  greater  part  of 
his  thinking  is  for  her.  Her  image  seems  so  close  to 
him  that,  at  a  wish,  he  could  believe  her  hand  in  his,  her 
footsteps  fitting  proudly  to  his  own,  yet  falling  behind 
by  the  shortage  of  an  inch  or  two  at  each  stride  taken, 
and  seeking  compensation  in  a  skip.  He  hears  her  voice 
under  his  ear;  senses  the  companionship  of  her,  as  dear 
and  welcome  as  the  bud-warmed  breeze  in  May.  All  his 
allegiance,  all  his  protection,  rise  at  the  thought.  She 
is  too  dear  for  sacrifice.  Whatever  else,  out  of  this 
shipwreck  of  emotions,  Bella  shall  survive.  If,  and  so 
far  as,  mortal  may  devise  it,  her  life  and  happiness  shall 
be  secured.  He  will  not  desert  her.  Friends  they  have 
been;  friends  they  shall  be.  And  if  this  little  playmate 
of  his  heart,  this  sister-by-deed,  ever  come  to  think 
gratefully  of  her  knight  errant — but  that  is  all  in  the 
bosom  of  the  future,  as  dim  as  old  lace  or  ghostly  tap- 
estry. For  the  present,  all  that  stirs  in  him  is  a  noble 
chivalry;  a  virtue  transcending  itself,  that  rides  the  gal- 
lant steed  of  resolution  over  these  ruins  like  some  reck- 
less courier  across  a  battlefield.  So  swift  does  his 
charger  bear  him  that  he  finds  himself  in  front  of  the 
Sceptre  before  he  deemed  the  journey  more  than  well 
begun,  and  has  to  pause  in  a  difficult  exercise  of  memory 
to  decide  by  what  way  he  has  reached  this  elevation — 
whether  across  the  viaduct  or  the  Parade  bridge,  or 
down  and  up  again  through  the  hollow  of  the  dell  ?  He 


BELLA 


305 


thinks  it  was  the  latter,  and  a  few  steps  further  is  as- 
sured of  it,  for  did  he  not  avoid  the  bridge  lest  he  might 
have  to  stem  the  pouring  current  from  the  Parade?  But 
the  Parade  is  still  animate;  its  mass  still  instinct  with 
corporate  vitality. 

He  hears  the  band  below,  and  the  murmur  of  the 
sea,  and  looks  down  upon  the  myriads  of  twinkling 
lights  like  the  reflection  of  another  firmament.  Upon 
the  forms  that  space  out  the  asphalt  pathway  above  the 
Parade  gardens  figures  are  seated  under  the  starlight; 
couples,  chiefly,  compressed  almost  into  the  semblance 
of  units,  and  distinguishable  only  by  the  duplex  head. 
They  occupy  the  extremities  of  the  benches,  with  a  prodi- 
gal waste  of  space  between;  wrapped,  each,  in  a  com- 
fortable murmurous  sound,  or  in  a  silence  even  deeper; 
and  the  Poet — in  the  brief  respite  between  one  abstrac- 
tion and  the  next — wonders  what  awakenings  the  world 
reserves  for  these.  He  walks  in  the  roadway,  between 
the  seated  figures  and  the  row  of  high  houses,  lit  up  in 
almost  every  window  from  basement  to  garret,  and  ex- 
hibiting a  signal  emptiness  as  if  they  formed  the  pros- 
cenium of  a  panorama,  and  one  stream  of  naked  light 
illuminated  all.  Each  room  constitutes  a  world;  each 
world,  despite  an  outward  similarity,  differs  from  its 
neighbors;  here  are  diners  or  supper-takers,  agitating 
their  busy  heads  around  a  crowded  table ;  there,  are  soli- 
tary readers  who  pore  under  a  lamp;  elsewhere  are 
some  that  sit  by  the  open  window  and  intercept  the  flood 
of  light,  or,  wrapped  in  rugs,  drink  of  the  freshness  of 
the  starlight  from  the  balcony.  Of  all  these,  in  their  re- 
semblance and  diversity,  the  Poet  makes  one  picture 
with  a  single  glance,  and  returns  to  his  brooding 

The  latch  is  down  at  Mrs.  Herring's;  thin  laths 
light  through  the  oblique  Venetian  blinds  in  Sir  Henry 
Phillimore's    room    show    the    aged    knight    returned. 


306  BELLA 

Daisy  Pendlip's  letter,  that  has  missed  the  northern  post 
of  overnight,  awaits  the  Poet  on  the  hall-stand.  He 
walks  up  the  stairs  with  it,  tearing  it  open  automatically 
as  he  goes,  and  reads  it  beneath  the  chandelier  in  his 
room,  going  through  all  the  elaborate  process  of  perusal, 
and  scarcely  notes  or  comprehends  a  word.  With  much 
more  speculation  does  he  con  the  dial  of  his  watch, 
weighing  this  in  an  undecided  hand  as  if  it  were  a 
purpose  balanced  on  the  scale.  Indecision,  too,  is 
shown  in  the  Poet's  attitude.  He  has  not  removed 
his  overcoat,  nor  yet  his  hat,  but  sits  on  the  table- 
edge,  swinging  a  leg,  the  picture  of  moody  youth- 
ful dissipation,  were  this  a  billiard  table  and  the 
hour  less  infantile.  And  first  he  says  he  cannot  go  to- 
night ;  and  then  he  says  it  was  a  promise ;  and  his  hands 
and  head  turn  very  hot  of  a  sudden,  and  he  pushes  back 
his  hat  and  blows  through  his  lips  as  if  to  cool  himself. 
And  after  that  he  rises  restlessly  and  paces  up  and  down 
his  room — just  as  Pendlip  is  doing  at  the  other  end  of 
the  bay — with  his  coat  flung  open  and  his  hands  plunged 
in  his  trousers'  pockets,  communing  fervidly  with  him- 
self. 

After  what  Pendlip  has  told  him?  In  face  of  what 
he  knows?  Confess  the  truth?  Impossible. 

Go  and  tell  her  some  trumped-up  story?  Frightfully 
sorry.  Sickness  of  a  friend.  Must  leave  Spathorpe 
without  delay.  No,  no.  As  little  possible  as  the  other. 
Their  instincts  are  too  well  acquainted  for  such  trans- 
parent falsehoods.  She  would  read  and  scorn  the  lie 
in  him  at  once. 

Break  this  appointment?  Act  the  cad?  Write  her 
a  fugitive  note?  Let  her  curl  her  lip  over  his  cow- 
ardice ? 

What  then? 

What  then?    Then  the  boy's  blood  lays  sudden  siege 


BELLA  307 

to  him,  and  all  his  pulses  tingle,  and  all  the  passions  and 
desires  that  have  their  secret  habitation  in  the  fleshwork 
of  youth — youth's  glory  and  despair — break  loose  in  him 
and  course  from  cell  to  cell,  brandishing  fire-brands  and 
torches,  and  bearing  down  those  few  poor  anchorite 
thoughts,  slaves  of  prayer,  that  with  pale  lips  and  sup- 
plicating hands  plead  mortification  and  duty.  Con- 
science staggers  before  the  onrush,  and  falls.  She  is 
there,  this  wonderful  piece  of  womanhood,  within  a 
stone's  throw;  nearer  than  that;  within  the  closest  cir- 
cle of  his  desires;  awaiting  him;  watching  the  hands  of 
the  timepiece,  ceasing  her  music  now  and  again,  if  she 
be  at  play,  to  listen  for  the  first  intimation  of  his  step. 
Bliss,  delectable  enough  to  fill  the  very  measure  of  the 
firmament,  trembles  on  a  boy's  mere  self-denial ;  on  his 
blanched  and  rigid  "No."  He  swims  with  the  desire  to 
meet  temptation  once  again;  with  the  impulse  to  suc- 
cumb to  it;  to  fasten  his  thirsty  lips  to  this  chalice  of 
sweet  red  sinfulness  and  drain  the  cup  to  the  last  dregs 
of  remorse. 

Oh,  Richard  Pendlip,  perambulating  your  indignation 
from  wall  to  wall  of  your  apartment,  as  this  boy  does 
his  passion;  Richard  Pendlip,  that  will  later  roll  your 
elderly  and  comfortable  person  into  the  creaking  hos- 
pitality of  an  unfamiliar  bed,  and  pitch  and  toss  be- 
tween the  blankets  for  your  final  ease  of  posture  like  a 
porpoise  that  rolls  up  coast  in  a  dirty  sea;  Richard 
Pendlip,  whose  veins  are  heated — as  by  your  gray  hairs, 
propriety  shall  hope — by  no  passion  hotter  or  more  de- 
batable than  wrath;  be  lenient  toward  this  boy,  for  if 
you  could  taste  one  tittle  of  the  insurrection  in  your 
flesh  that  rends  his  kingdom,  be  sure  you  would  not  lack 
for  mercy. 

Twice  the  boy  throws  down  his  hat,  as  if  his  courage 
his  conscience — abdicated,  saying :  "  I  can't  go. 


308  BELLA 

It's  giving  her  the  game."  And  then  he  summons 
thoughts  of  Bella  to  help  him  quell  the  tumult;  reciting 
the  girl's  virtues  like  an  Ave  Mary;  holding  the  image 
of  her  before  his  eyes.  Passion  and  conscience  parley; 
strike  a  truce  and  blend.  The  late  contestants  are  dan- 
gerously indistinguishable.  This  visit,  urged  at  first  by 
undissimulated  passion,  takes  on  the  character  of  a  cru- 
sade. Conscience,  employing  passion's  mercenaries,  pro- 
claims a  holy  war.  Bella  is  to  be  the  motive  of  it. 
Bella's  emblem  decorates  his  standard.  And  the  Poet 
reclaims  his  hat. 

Does  he  practice  self-deception,  this  boy?  Is  he, 
after  all,  in  the  seclusion  of  his  own  heart,  a  hypocrite 
self-confessed,  if  not  proclaimed? 

That  no  man,  not  even  the  historian,  is  able  truly  to 
decide.  When  piety  and  the  passions  mingle  forces,  it 
is  like  the  union  of  two  springs  that  mix  their  waters 
underground.  Nor  can  himself,  in  whose  bosom  they 
meet  and  flow,  trace  back  each  separate  current  to  its 
source.  He  feels  to  glow  with  righteousness,  even 
though  that  righteousness  draw  its  warmth  from  con- 
tact with  temptation.  He  goes  determined  to  prevail, 
yet  thrilled  with  subtle  knowledge  of  the  sweetness  to 
succumb.  The  saint  consumes  to  touch  the  sinner's  cup 
and  sense  the  thrill  of  glorious  temptation,  albeit 
strengthened  with  more  glorious  purpose  to  renounce  it. 
So,  with  a  sinner's  recklessness  and  a  saint's  fervor,  the 
Poet  goes  to  keep  appointment  with  the  Flesh. 


XLII 

IT  was  half  past  ten  when  the  Poet  led  his  reconciled 
factions  down  the  stairs.  He  met  Sir  Henry,  too  far 
ascended  for  retirement,  on  his  way  to  bed,  with  the 
fringed  plaid  shawl  over  his  shoulders  and  a  pair  of 
bedroom  slippers  in  his  hand.  The  aged  knight  came 
to  a  standstill,  deriving  support  from  the  handrail,  till 
the  Poet  passed  him;  moved  to  coughing  by  the  effort 
of  speech,  so  that  the  gripped  banister  creaked  in  sym- 
pathy with  his  laboring  body.  At  the  landing  he  turned 
again  and  looked  long  and  steadfastly  at  the  door 
through  which  the  Poet's  figure  had  disappeared.  He 
did  not  clasp  his  snowy  beard,  nor  shake  his  head,  but 
the  mere  address  of  his  person  to  the  next  stair  seemed 
eloquent  of  a  despair  of  youth.  Beginning  the  night 
when  reputable  age  was  on  its  way  to  bed !  These  boys 
ruled  the  world;  consumed  their  candles  like  fire-eaters. 
What  were  we  coming  to? 

If  the  aged  moralist  had  but  accompanied  the  insti- 
gator of  these  reflections,  he  might  have  found  still 
further  confirmation  of  his  thought,  and  beheld  the  Poet 
moralist  in  turn.  For  the  side-door  in  the  garden  wall 
of  Cromwell  Lodge  stood  ajar,  sheltering  two  figures  as 
the  Poet  passed  abreast  of  it.  One,  letting  issue  a 
startled  "  It's  him,"  melted  into  the  garden  beyond,  with 
a  faint  likeness  to  Mrs.  Dysart's  waiting-maid,  whose 
eyes  studied  the  Poet  so  diligently  in  the  glass;  the 
other,  of  more  masculine  proportions,  started  from  the 
doorway  as  if  suddenly  expulsed  by  hand,  and  de- 

309 


310  BELLA 

parted  in  the  shadow  of  the  wall — though  with  steps  of 
no  conclusiveness,  that  would  come  to  a  stop  (the  Poet 
knew  full  well)  the  moment  his  own  were  sufficiently 
removed,  and  return  to  the  farewell  interrupted.  So 
the  side-door  not  less  than  the  front  has  its  secrets !  A 
smile,  too  fleeting  for  the  lips  to  seize,  passes  across  the 
Poet's  mind.  No  human  action  but  transcends  the 
agent,  and  has  an  influence  elsewhere,  on  some  other. 
By  these  two  figures  mumbling  in  the  shelter  of  the 
door  he  is  conceived,  in  all  belief,  a  pattern  and  a  fel- 
low; his  conduct  doubtless  lends  a  comfortable  assur- 
ance to  their  own,  since  it  fortifies  the  weak  to  err  in 
company  with  the  strong.  The  disturbed  courtier,  mak- 
ing pretence  to  whistle  and  rubbing  the  wall  with  his 
elbow  as  he  feigned  to  go,  has  a  good  precedent  for 
dalliance.  Through  this  gaping  door  much  knowledge 
of  the  life  beyond  has  leaked,  and  he  knows,  be  sure, 
more  of  the  passing  Poet  than  the  Poet  knows  or  seeks 
to  know  of  him. 

From  the  far  side  of  the  high  familiar  wall,  above 
whose  coping  an  aura  of  diffused  light  reveals  the  glow 
of  the  garden  window,  comes  the  sound  of  intermittent 
music,  but  no  voice;  passages  played  with  a  loitering 
finger  that  seems  to  toy  with  time.  The  sound  goes  to 
the  Poet's  bosom,  dislodging  the  coward  in  him,  as  if 
this  tinkle  had  been  the  drums  of  war.  With  all  his 
combined  forces  he  shirks  engagement  with  this  single 
enemy.  Well,  fear  is  a  true  sign  of  conscience  after 
all.  It  takes  him  by  the  studded  door  without  so  much 
as  a  glance  at  what  he  passes,  as  if  it  were  some  plague- 
house  portal,  and  into  the  silent  square  where  curious 
watchers — and  it  is  a  lone  square  in  Spathorpe  that  has 
none — may  see  him  push  back  his  hat  to  feel  the  cool- 
ness of  the  stars  upon  his  forehead  and  publish  his  white 
front  a  dozen  times  beneath  the  flicker  of  the  single 


BELLA  311 

gas-lamp.  But  he  is  gone  at  last,  when  interest  looks 
for  him  again,  with  a  girl's  name  written  on  his  resolu- 
tion, and  mounts  the  steps  of  Cromwell  Lodge  to  press 
the  white  button  of  the  electric  bell.  Its  thrill,  that  dis- 
tantly succeeds,  stirs  him  like  a  tremor  of  his  own  flesh. 
"  Jacta  est  alea ! "  he  says  at  the  sound  of  it,  and  has 
little  time  for  more  before  the  door  opens. 

It  opens  seductively,  discreetly,  with  the  soft  promp- 
titude that  spells  welcome  better  than  words.  One 
might  know  that  a  woman  stood  behind  it,  even  if  the 
perfume  of  her  did  not  mingle  with  the  eddies  stirred 
by  the  door's  withdrawal  and  his  own  entrance.  And 
curiously  enough — a  phenomenon  noted  by  the  Poet's 
self — her  presence  in  a  moment  calms  him;  restores  him 
all  his  threatened  composure.  Imagination  has  passed 
him  through  such  a  crucible,  it  seems  that,  by  contrast 
with  the  cool  reality  of  her,  passion  is  chilled  to  the 
temperature  of  reason.  The  smile  on  his  face  betrays 
no  hint  of  vicissitude,  no  look  of  change,  as  it  responds 
to  Mrs.  Dysart's  greeting. 

"  Ah !  "  she  cries,  casting  pearly  reproach  on  him  as 
he  goes  by.  "  C'est  1'enf ant  prodigue  de  retour !  Viens, 
mon  cher  enfant,  et  dis  moi  ce  qu'il  faut  pour  que  je 
te  pardonne  ton  absence.  Quand  on  dine  on  oublie, 
n'est-ce-pas,  mon  ami?  Et  la  pauvre  femme  s'ennuie. 
Les  choses  de  1'estomac  s'esquivent  des  choses  du 
coeur! "  She  ran  lightly  across  vocal  stepping- 
stones  to  English.  "  Come !  "  and  led  the  way  with 
laughter.  "  It  would  seem  then  that  Poets  are  not  all 
soul  and  song  and  upper-story.  There's  a  little  of  the 
basement  about  them,  too.  Oh,  you  men !  All  your  busi- 
ness ends  in  dinner,  like  cigarettes  in  smoke.  You  don't 
know  how  frightfully  lonely  I  have  been  without  you. 
I  was  almost  beginning  to  believe  in  ghosts.  Another 
moment  and  I  should  have  repented  all  my  sins.  Bad 


312  BELLA 

boy  that  you  are,  to  dine  so  late."  They  were  in  the 
drawing-room.  "  Well  ?  What  have  you  to  say  for 
yourself  ?  " 

"  Truly  rural ! "  he  replied,  with  a  short  laugh. 
"  That's  an  awful  lot  to  say  after  dinner." 

"You  passed  an  enjoyable  time  with  your  friend?" 

"—Thank  you." 

"  Bella  was  full  of  him.  She  says  she  simply  loves 
him.  He  is  a  darling,  with  the  most  beautiful  whiskers. 
.  .  .  Good  gracious !  "  Mrs.  Dysart  broke  off  to  inti- 
mate displeasure  at  the  Poet's  hat  and  coat.  "  Why  have 
you  brought  those  dreadful  things  in  here?  You  stand 
like  a  memento  mori.  I  feel  my  age  at  the  sight  of  you. 
Time  flies  fast  enough  without  being  prompted.  Take 
them  off." 

He  objected.     "  Really — it  is  too  late.     I  only  just 

came I  was  afraid  you  might  be  sitting  up  for 

me." 

"  So  I  am." 

"  I  did  not  come  to  stay " 

"  You  came  to  keep  me  company,  and  make  up  for 
all  I  have  missed  of  you  to-night.  Take  them  off.  Be 
obedient." 

He  felt  the  subtle  toils  of  her  tones  and  laughter, 
and  tried  to  resist  the  web  of  bondage  spun  about  him. 

"  Please 1  really  ought  not  to  keep  you  up.    I  am 

not  thinking  about  myself." 

"  I  don't  want  you  to.  You  have  had  all  the  night 
to  do  that.  I  want  you  to  think  about  me  .  .  .  You  wilful 
boy ! "  She  came  swiftly  to  him  with  an  imperious 
smile  that  brooked  no  denial.  "  I  must  compel  you, 
then.  You  spare  my  modesty  nothing.  Can't  you  pro- 
fess friendship,  even  if  you  feel  none?  Dissimulation 
is  the  first  letter  of  the  alphabet  of  politeness.  So,  and 
so "  With  her  quick,  supple  fingers  she  undid  the 


BELLA  313 

buttons  of  his  coat.  "Now!"  and  pulled  laughingly 
upon  the  sleeve.  He  suffered  himself  to  be  divested, 
surrendered  his  hat.  Had  they  been  sword  and  buckler 
he  could  not  have  felt  more  conscious  of  disarmament. 
Now  he  was  at  her  mercy  in  respect  to  time.  Cut  off 
from  hat  and  coat  his  line  of  retirement  lay  broken; 
with  no  reckonable  aid  from  the  ready  moments,  retreat 
(if  it  come  to  that)  must  be  a  rout.  And  this  begin- 
ning was  unpropitious  not  only  in  the  sacrifice  of  his 
defences,  but  the  enemy's  reconnaissance  in  force  dis- 
mayed him.  He  had  seen  the  look  of  resolute  conquest 
in  those  violet-gray  eyes;  the  touch  of  this  white  hand 
had  been  triumphant;  from  the  warmth  and  fragrance 
of  that  defiant  body  brought  so  close  to  him,  his  sentry 
senses  told  him  that  this  night  the  warfare  of  the  flesh 
would  be  declared;  the  battle  fought,  and  lost  or  won. 

Strange  it  is  how  knowledge  weakens  when  rather 
it  should  strengthen.  Had  he  known  nothing  of  this 
woman  he  could  have  fought  her  easier  than  now.  Her 
weakness  only  taints  his  courage.  He  feels  what  Pendlip 
felt,  the  undermining  shame  that  shames  to  shame  her; 
by  what  he  knows,  the  more  he  shirks.  He  dreads  lest 
she  shall  pluck  the  secret  from  his  eyes,  and  read  what 
he  withholds  from  her,  in  characters  of  cowardice. 
Pendlip's  task  is  now  become  the  Poet's  task,  intensified 
by  reason  of  the  finer  tissues  to  be  wounded.  Pendlip's 
emotions  are  the  Poet's  emotions  magnified;  Pendlip's 
misgivings,  his.  Now  he  realizes  what  prudence  might 
have  known  before:  the  fearful  inequality  of  a  contest 
where  the  one  dreads  above  all  to  wound,  and  yet  must 
wound  to  conquer ;  and  the  other  by  being  conquered  and 
being  wounded,  so  much  the  nearer  wins ;  snatching  vic- 
tory out  of  very  defeat. 

"  I  was  a  fool  to  come,"  the  accusation  flashed 
through  him.  "  To-morrow— by  daylight— I  might  have 
21 


314  BELLA 

faced  her.  But  to-night.  Why  didn't  I  take  the  proper 
coward's  course,  as  Pendlip  wished  me,  and  send  her  a 
letter  after  I  was  gone ! "  And  when  he  looked  upon 
her  now,  in  this  soft-lit  room,  the  knowledge  of  his 
weakness  grew.  The  light,  behind  these  silken  shades, 
hid  itself  discreetly  like  a  face  behind  a  fan.  Illumina- 
tion was  no  higher  than  a  whisper  between  confidants, 
and  possessed  of  the  same  mysterious  power  to  mag- 
nify the  subject  touched  on,  and  endow  it  with  mys- 
terious wonder.  The  lamps  spread  soft  spheres  of 
radiance,  sunlit  islands  in  a  twilight  sea,  that  widened 
their  shores  to  welcome  the  woman  when  she  neared 
them,  seeming  to  wrap  their  radiance  about  her  gleam- 
ing shoulders,  and  lend  all  their  glow  to  her  beauty. 
Her  very  toilet,  now  he  was  confronted  with  it,  made 
the  Poet's  courage  falter.  It  was  as  if  the  flesh,  tired 
of  being  so  long  and  wilfully  ignored,  had  said :  "  This 
night  you  shall  not  overlook  me.  See.  I  declare  my- 
self." Only  a  single  necklet  of  seed  pearls  interposed 
between  the  whiteness  of  her  throat  and  bosom;  the 
corsage,  daringly  reduced,  professed  the  least  depend- 
ence on  her  shoulders;  her  milk-white  bust  swelled  out 
of  it  undecked  or  unadorned  like  that  first  Venus  issuing 
of  sea-foam. 

"There!"  She  laid  the  Poet's  offending  hat  and 
coat  on  a  chair  in  the  far  corner  of  the  window,  and 
swam  back  to  him  as  if  floated  by  her  own  laughter. 
"  Now  we  can  talk  better.  Stop.  I  have  disarranged 
your  tie  in  taking  off  your  coat.  You  look  as  if  you 
had  been  to  the  club.  No,  no.  You  shall  stand  still. 
You  have  been  drinking  Benedictine.  And  you  smell 
of  cigar."  Her  fingers  adjusted  the  tie  for  him.  Their 
profiles  almost  touched;  her  violet-gray  eyes  provoked 
him  at  such  close  quarters  that  their  two  visions  blurred 
into  one,  like  waterdrops  that  blend.  But  the  audacity 


BELLA  315 

she  would  have  roused  in  him  failed  her.  His  faee  in 
the  ordeal  hardened,  and  there  was  little  smile  left  on 
it  when  she  let  him  go.  "  TRere.  I  spoil  you.  I  sup- 
pose all  the  women  spoil  you.  You  may  thank  me  if 
you  like."  She  subsided  into  the  cushions  of  the  low 
chair  in  which  he  had  first  seen  her,  and  laughingly 
toyed  with  her  rings. 

He  said :  "  Thank  you,"  but  his  lips  were  dry.  Im- 
pulse, in  the  brief  assault,  had  been  restrained  as  hardly 
as  a  recruit  smarting  under  temptation  to  answer  fire. 
Pride  as  much  as  passion  moved  him.  He  burned  to 
display  his  courage  before  this  audacious  foe,  and  prove 
himself  the  man  she  challenged,  and  no  mere  boy,  blind 
to  her  temptations  or  fearful  of  his  own. 

"  Do  we  need  any  longer  to  be  invited  to  the  chairs  ?  " 

"  I  think  not." 

"  Sit  down,  then,  and  don't  look  at  me  as  if  I  were 
a  schoolmarm.  You  embarrass  me,  standing  up  there 
like  the  kept-in  scholar,  that  doesn't  know  his  multipli- 
cation table  and  counts  my  freckles  out  of  spite." 

He  chose  the  settee,  as  farthest  from  her.  She  saw 
the  ruse  and  laughed  exposure  of  it. 

"  And  I  did  not  send  you  into  the  corner.  Why  are 
you  frightened  of  me  ?  Are  you  a  bad  boy  ?  " 

"  I  am  a  very  good  boy." 

"After  all,  I  don't  know  whether  I  like  good  boys 
any  better  than  bad  ones.  But  why  have  you  such  a 
long  face  ?  " 

"  I  did  not  know  I  had  a  long  face." 

"To  be  sure  you  have.  A  fiddler  could  play  the 
most  dreadful  tunes  on  it.  What  has  your  friend  been 
saying  to  you  ?  " 

He  stammered :    "  My  friend  ?  " 

"You  said  he  was  your  friend.  Perhaps  he  isn't 
your  friend  any  longer.  Have  you  quarreled?" 


316  BELLA 

"  Not  at  all "    He  drew  his  breath. 

" But  what?" 

"  But  nothing." 

"  Oh,  yes.  But  something.  I  am  sure  of  it.  You 
had  '  but  something/  on  the  tip  of  your  tongue." 

The  Poet  made  no  answer.  His  heart,  responding 
to  this  declaration  of  war,  drummed  behind  his  white 
front.  The  battle  was  begun. 

"Well?" 

"  Well." 

"  So  I  am  right.  Of  course,  you  need  not  tell  me 
the  truth,  you  foolish  boy!  I  don't  expect  it;  there's 
no  need  to  look  so  scared.  I'm  only  a  woman,  and  a 
woman  never  learns  the  truth  except  from  her  looking- 
glass — or  when  truth's  very  dreadful." 

"  Truth  is  not  so  dreadful  as  that.  At  least,  for 
you.  It  is  a  question  of  business,"  he  blurted  out. 
"  I  shall  have  to  leave  Spathorpe."  And  tried  to  ex- 
press carelessness  through  a  use  of  slang.  "  It's  fright- 
fully rotten,  but  I  can't  help  myself."  He  dropped  his 
eyes  from  the  woman  as  he  said  it,  but  felt  the  mo- 
mentary breach  in  the  current  of  her  smile,  for  all 
she  did  not  cease  to  twist  her  rings. 

"  So  that  is  what  has  spoiled  your  dinner  ?  " 

She  was  speaking  through  her  veil  of  quiet  laughter 
again.  He  knew  it  by  the  sound  of  her  voice,  and  the 
fact  lent  him  courage  to  face  her. 

"We  did  not  discuss  it  until  the  end." 

"  And  that  is  what  brought  your  friend  to  see  you  ?  " 

"Yes." 

"  All  the  way  from  town  ?  " 

"I  suppose  so." 

"  And  must  you  really  go  ?  " 

"Really  and  truly." 

"When?" 


BELLA  317 

"  To-morrow." 

"So  soon?" 

"I  can't  get  out  of  it." 

He  began  to  breathe  again.  The  crisis,  so  dreaded 
all  this  while,  seemed  to  dissolve  in  the  surmounting 
like  a  hill  under  the  pedestrian's  foot,  that  showed  per- 
pendicular when  first  he  faced  it.  He  drew  assurance 
from  the  sense  of  liberty  at  hand. 

"It's  a  frightful  nuisance.  All  my  packing.  Just 
when  I  was  so  comfortable  and  happy." 

"  You  poor  boy !  And  how  long  will  this  dreadful 
business  take  you  ?  " 

"How  long?"  He  had  thought  the  hill  sur- 
mounted !  His  breathing  thickened  again. 

"  Yes.  How  long  shall  you  be  away  ?  When  do 
you  return?" 

"  I  don't  know."  His  words  were  hurried.  "  That 
wasn't  discussed.  Pendlip  didn't  say."  He  temporized 
like  any  scullion  with  a  fault  to  hide.  She  looked  at 
him  for  a  moment  enigmatically,  and  then  at  her  rings, 
and  then  out  again  to  him  as  though  he  puzzled  her. 
Then  she  laughed  endearingly  into  his  troubled  face 
and  drew  his  eyes  into  her  own  through  their  inviting 
veil  of  thick  lashes,  kissing  them  with  all  but  lips  in 
the  violet-gray  depths  beyond  before  she  gave  them 
sudden  open-eyed  release. 

"  But  you  are  going  to  say ! "  she  told  him  gaily. 
"  You  are  going  to  promise  me  a  day  of  return.  Of 
course  you  are.  You  owe  it  to  me.  I  have  taken  all 
your  business  for  gospel— and  haven't  laughed  once— 
though  business  is  the  last  word  a  woman  should  ever 
believe.  And  now  you  are  going  to  reward  my  con- 
fidence. Come!  I  haven't  asked  you  what  your  busi- 
ness is.  We'll  pretend  it's  terribl}  important.  How 
many  days  do  you  want  for  itr  Tell  me,  so  that  I 


318  BELLA 

may  know  when  to  expect  you,  and  may  tick  the  days 
off  with  my  finger.  Two?  Three?  Don't  ask  me  to 
say  more  than  that." 

He  shook  his  head  with  a  dry-lipped  smile.  His 
heart  pumped  the  blood  to  his  brain  with  labored 
throbs,  like  the  engines  of  a  crazy  coal-tug  thrusting 
her  against  the  tide.  How  easily  he  might  have  lied 
for  release;  purchased  liberty  with  cheap  falsehood! 
But  his  trouble  was  above  guile.  Deception  at  this  crisis 
never  even  occurred  to  him. 

"  I  can't  promise.  I  don't  know  when — I  can't  be 
certain  of  anything  at  present." 

The  woman  let  fall  her  fingers,  and  the  smile 
dropped  off  her  lips  suddenly  like  a  bird  from  the 
bough.  Nothing  but  sober  inquiry  gazed  at  him  now 
from  her  fixed  deep  eyes. 

"  You  mean — that  you  are  not  coming  back  at  all." 

They  were  at  the  truth  of  it  at  last. 

"  I'm  afraid  I  do  mean  that." 

There  was  a  pause.  Then  the  woman  blazed  out 
with  a  luminous  and  lovely  smile,  laying  her  hand  upon 
the  cushion  of  a  chair  close  by.  "  Come  here,  you 
curious  boy,  and  sit  by  me  where  I  can  see  your  face. 
You  are  all  in  the  shadow  over  there  and  I  can't  make 
you  out  a  bit.  I  want  to  talk  to  you." 

He  did  not  move. 

"  Come !  "  she  called  to  him  again,  tapping  the  chair 
persuasively  with  her  hand.  "  Surely  I  am  not  grown 
so  very  terrible  that  you  need  to  be  asked  twice." 

"  It  would  be  easier  if  you  were." 

"  That  is  the  first  nice  thing  you  have  said  to  me 
since  you  came.  I  want  you  to  say  ever  so  many  more 
nice  things  like  that !  "  She  still  indicated  the  chair 
with  a  soft  hand  laid  upon  its  cushion,  proffering  the 
invitation  in  her  smile;  and  still,  with  a  strained  smile 


BELLA  319 

in  return,  he  tried  lightly  to  decline  it,  as  though  her 
request  and  his  refusal  were  playful  insincerities;  a 
laughing  fence  between  them,  and  not  a  grim  passage 
of  arms  flashing  in  the  sunlight.  "Fie!  you  naughty 
boy !  Where  are  your  manners  to  keep  a  lady  waiting 
for  you ! " 

He  begged :  "  No,  no !  Don't  ask  me,  please.  It 
only  makes  things  harder  for  me." 

"  For  you !  Oh,  the  selfishness  of  man.  There  are 
no  hardships  for  woman,  then.  The  only  sufferings  in 
the  world  are  those  you  feel;  you  cannot  divine  any. 
Well?  You  won't  come  to  me?  Then  I  must  come 
to  you,  I  suppose."  She  withdrew  her  hand  from  the 
chair  and  rose  in  all  her  supple  length  of  womanhood, 
sweeping,  with  the  confidence  of  beautiful  laughter,  to 
the  settee. 

He  saw  her  coming  like  a  wave,  superb  in  its  crested 
beauty,  admired  even  through  the  impotence  that  knows 
it  must  engulf  him. 


XLIII 

<<>TpHERE!"  She  said,  seating  herself  by  his  side. 
•*•  "  Now  we  can  tell  our  troubles  away  from  the 
lamplight.  What  is  this  dreadful  bone  you  are  growling 
over  in  your  corner?  Come!  You  must  be  a  good 
obedient  doggie.  I'm  not  going  to  take  it  away  from 
you.  I  only  want  to  see  what  it  is  you're  keeping  so 
terribly  to  yourself.  Let  me  stroke  you."  She  put  out 
an  arm  and  drew  one  of  his  hands  into  hers,  with  a 
coaxing  silken  caress.  "  Why !  You  are  quite  cold." 
She  tightened  her  clasp  upon  the  chill  fingers,  and  then 
sandwiched  them  commiseratively  between  her  soft 
warm  palms,  gazing  inquiry  and  compassion  into  his 
eyes.  "  Your  hand  is  quite  cold !  What  sort  of  busi- 
ness is  it  that  makes  one's  hand  so  cold  as  this  ? " 

He  thought  dimly  of  Pendlip's  retort  to  his  own 
question,  asked  and  answered  a  whole  century  ago: 
"  Everybody's  business,"  but,  though  the  kindling 
warmth  of  the  woman's  clasp  set  his  pulses  in  commo- 
tion and  suffocated  conscience,  he  made  no  effort  to 
release  himself,  lest  retreat  might  draw  a  hotter  pur- 
suit upon  the  remnants  of  his  forces. 

"  What  sort  of  business  is  it,  then  ? "  Mrs.  Dysart 
repeated,  squeezing  his  hand  persuasively,  as  if  the 
answer  lay  in  his  imprisoned  fingers.  "  If  I  have  given 
myself  the  right  to  call  you  by  your  Christian  name, 
and  sometimes  do  so,  and  have  given  you  the  right  to 
call  me  by  mine — though  you  don't  ever — surely  I  may 
add  the  privilege  of  questioning  you  a  little  in  regard 

320 


BELLA  321 

to  business  that  hurts  us  both !  Mayn't  I,  now?  Mayn't 
I  ?  "  She  raised  his  hand  within  her  own  two,  holding 
it  suspended  beneath  the  breathing  round  fullness  of 
her  bosom,  and  the  persuasive  smooth  throat  thrown 
out  to  him  under  most  appealing  lips,  ripe  for  kisses 
and  confession.  Even  as  the  Poet  looked  at  her  he  felt 
the  surging  desire  to  have  done  with  all  this  stemming 
of  his  own  blood;  to  sacrifice  all  his  purpose  upon  the 
altar  of  her  lips. 

"  If  we  knew  each  other  better — "  the  velvet  lashes 
emphasized  her  meaning  by  adroitly  veiling  it — "if  we 
knew  each  other  better  I  should  suspect  you  were  grown 
tired  of  me,  and  that — well!  you  won't  be  angry? — that 
you  were  a  little  clumsy  at  taking  leave.  There!  But 
surely  we  don't  know  each  other  well  enough  for  that. 
One  only  parts  in  that  way  from  friendships  that  have 
no  more  to  offer.  Surely,  not  from  a  pretty  woman 
one  is  just  beginning  to  know  and  care  for,  and  who 
cares  a  great  deal  for  one  in  return.  Am  I  to  suspect 
conscience  ?  " 

He  clutched  at  the  suggestion,  saying :    "  Yes." 

"  What  sort  of  conscience  ?  Another  woman  ?  Pret- 
tier, perhaps,  than  this  ?  " 

"  No,  no." 

"  Oh,  I  could  have  forgiven  you  freely,  even  if  it  had 
been.  Man's  conscience  is  often  nothing  but  a  pretty 
woman  in  disguise.  Are  you  acting  under  a  sense  of 
duty  ?  You  are  not — engaged  ?  " 

He  lent  a  negative  to  that,  in  turn. 

She  said :  "  Not  that?  "  and  her  gaze,  swelling  com- 
prehensively, seemed  to  breathe  enlightenment  at  last. 
"Then  it  is  I,"  she  said  very  quietly,  "who  am  the 
cause  of  your  going ! " 

"No,  no!"  he  protested.  His  chivalry  could  not 
bear  to  wound  this  beautiful  woman  with  the  weapon 


322  BELLA 

she  had  put  into  his  hand.  "  That  is  not  fair.  You 
are  not  the  cause — any  more  than  I." 

"  You  have  heard  something  to-night.  Your  friend 
at  the  Majestic  has  been  talking  about  me.  Well — 
what  has  he  told  you  ?  " 

"  I  am  not  going  to  repeat  it." 

"  I  need  not  ask.  People  do  not  come  two  hundred 
miles  to  say  kind  things.  The  farther  news  has  to 
travel,  the  worse  it  is,  as  a  rule."  Her  lips  curled  with 
the  smitten  look  that  scorns  to  admit  the  wound.  "  So 
I  suppose  you  hate  me  now." 

"  Heaven  forbid !  " 

"  Yet  you  want  to  run  away  from  me."  She  laid 
one  hand  upon  his  knee;  the  warmth  of  each  finger 
crept  through  upon  him  like  the  burn  of  hot  kisses. 
"  Do  you  believe  it  ?  " 

"Believe  what?" 

"  What  your  friend  says  of  me  ?  " 

He  hesitated.     "  I   will   believe  you." 

"  But  suppose  I  don't  deny  it.     Suppose " 

She  relinquished  her  remaining  clasp  of  his  hand, 
and  laid  her  fingers  suddenly  upon  his  shoulder  with 
the  seductiveness  of  Eve,  bringing  her  lips  near  to  his 
own.  The  words  that  issued  from  them  came  cradled 
in  living  perfume  that  stifled  resolution  like  the  scent  of 
the  lotus.  The  warmth  from  her  bosom  rose  to  him, 
wafted  by  its  own  rise  and  fall.  All  his  physical  being 
seemed  to  simmer  on  the  fierce  stove  of  temptation, 
passing  away  from  him  through  diffused  channels  of 
tingling  nerve  into  mere  vaporized  existence.  He  was 
scarcely  flesh  and  blood,  but  the  elemental  essence  of 
life;  incorporate  desire,  to  be  blown  this  way  or  that 
by  a  woman's  breath. 

"Suppose  I  say  it  is  quite  true?"  She  watched 
his  eyes  as  never  woman  since  the  Poet's  own  mother 


BELLA  323 

had  watched  his  eyes  before.  "Suppose  I  say  that? 
Well.  What  should  you  answer?" 

He  answered  nothing.    His  heart  was  melting. 

"  Should  you  hate  me  then  ?  Should  you  ?  "  Her 
fingers  were  locked  behind  his  neck;  her  eyes  were 
deadly  pools  of  pleading;  large,  deep,  irresistible. 

"  I  could  never  hate  you." 

"Even  if  it  were  true?" 

"  Even  if  it  were  true." 

"  It  would  make  no  difference  to  your  thought  of 
me?" 

Loyalty  answered :    "  None." 

"  Dare  I  believe  you  ? " 

"  Oh,  you  may  believe  me." 

She  drew  her  face  back  and  looked  at  him  from  the 
outstretched  limit  of  her  arms.  "And  you  would  still 
wish  to  go? — because  it  is  true?" 

He  tried,  even  at  this  late  hour,  to  justify  his  resolu- 
tion. "  It  is  not  for  my  sake  alone " 

"  But  if  I  tell  you  I  have  no  sake?  The  world  has 
robbed  me  of  all  the  sake  I  ever  had.  If  I  put  all  the 
sake  on  to  your  own  side,  and  say :  '  Stay,  if  you  think 
my  love  worth  staying  for ! '  If  I  draw  your  face  for- 
ward like  this,  in  my  arms — and  kiss  you — kiss  you — 
kiss  you,  so,  and  tell  you  how  we  will  love  each  other 
and  laugh  at  the  world!  If  I  say  it  is  true — and  I  do 
say  it — will  you  kiss  me  in  return,  and  tell  me  you  love 
me  too,  and  will  not,  cannot  leave  me  ?  Will  you  ?  Will 
you?  Will  you?" 

His  lips,  wet  with  the  kisses  heaped  on  them,  sought 
blindly  after  hers  like  a  child  at  the  breast.  His  arms, 
put  out  in  the  first  instance  for  preservation,  were  in- 
terlocked with  hers.  The  sickly  mistiness  of  a  great 
passion  saturated  his  entire  being  within  its  anaesthetic 
sweetness,  as  they  swayed  together  over  the  abyss. 


324  BELLA 

Oh,  Mr.  Pendlip,  sir!  uttering  at  this  very  moment 
those  extraordinary  noises  in  your  bed,  as  if  you  were 
indignant  with  the  mattress,  trouble  your  mind  no 
longer  with  this  boy,  for  he  is  beyond  the  service  of 
your  wrath.  Your  snorts  and  groans  are  coinage 
wasted  on  a  lost  cause.  You  have  done  your  best, 
sir;  you  have  offered  him  a  feast  that  should  have 
touched  a  prodigal,  and  drunk  the  finest  champagne  for 
his  conscience's  sake.  Dismiss  him  now  and  take  your 
well-earned  slumber.  Nothing  but  a  miracle  can  save 
him,  and  the  age  of  miracles  (as  everybody  knows,  sir) 
is  past  and  gone. 


XLIV 

a  miracle  saved  him. 

A  few  seconds  sooner  it  had  been  no  miracle  at 
all;  merely  the  every-day  intervention  of  Providence. 
But  now  it  fitted  its  place  in  eternity  like  the  hairspring 
of  a  watch.  There  fell  a  sound  of  footsteps ;  the  sudden 
warning  of  a  grasped  door-handle.  The  Poet  was  ex- 
pelled from  that  perfumed  embrace  like  a  dewdrop 
shaken  out  of  the  heart  of  a  rose.  He  heard  Mrs. 
Dysart  exclaim:  "Bella!" 

The  name,  so  long  ignored  by  conscience,  fell  upon 
him  with  the  magic  of  an  enchantress'  wand.  All  the 
thick  cloud  of  passion,  vaporized  and  escaped  from 
his  physical  keeping,  like  the  Genie  of  the  flask,  came 
back  into  its  frail  receptacle  of  clay.  He  turned  at 
Mrs.  Dysart's  exclamation,  and  the  sight  of  the  girl 
in  the  doorway  was  as  the  throwing  open  of  shutters 
to  the  pale  cool  dawn  after  a  night's  fever,  with  clear 
daylight  streaming  through  the  casement  and  quenching 
the  candles.  And  his  soul  had  grace  to  thank  God 
for  deliverance. 

The  girl's  hand  lay  on  the  outer  knob  awhile,  as 
she  stood,  gazing  into  the  room  with  contracted  eyes  of 
search ;  a  softly  luminous  presence  in  the  mellow  light, 
clad  in  a  quilted  dressing-gown;  her  bare  feet  thrust 
into  bedroom  slippers  of  white  wool.  For  all  the  world, 
or  for  all  Heaven,  she  looked  at  the  moment  of  her 
entrance  like  some  blest  messenger  from  above.  The 
sudden  sound  of  her  own  name,  falling  so  immediately 
on  her  entrance,  had  surprised  and  checked  her  like 

325 


326  BELLA 

an  unexpected  drop  of  rain;  but  next  moment,  to  the 
single  cry :  "  Mamma !  " — like  the  glad  responsive  bleat 
of  a  lost  lamb  that  hears  the  maternal  voice  at  last, 
she  ran  forward  and  flung  her  arms  impetuously  around 
the  beloved  neck;  quenching  her  lips  at  that  fount  of 
clear  affection  whose  waters  flowed  so  turbidly  but 
the  moment  since.  "Mamma!"  she  cried,  rejoicing 
strangely  in  the  name.  "  You  are  here !  "  There  was  a 
history  of  mental  inquietude  in  the  relief  breathed  out 
upon  these  words. 

The  love  that  had  coiled  so  hotly  around  a  poet's 
heart  wound  the  girl  now  into  the  tenderest  toils.  The 
passionate  wine  of  wooing  with  which  she  had  intoxi- 
cated conscience,  was  turned  in  a  moment  to  milk  for 
the  feeding  of  a  girl's  affection.  She  drew  Bella  under 
the  ineffable  protection  of  her  bosom,  putting  around 
her  a  girdle  of  generous  arm  that  gathered  the  loose 
white  gown  in  outline  over  the  girl's  soft  figure;  press- 
ing back  with  fond  fingers  the  fair  width  of  brow  for 
long  gaze  into  the  gray  eyes  beneath.  Aspasia  was  all 
mother  in  a  moment.  The  Poet  by  her  side  sat  mute 
and  marveled.  His  own  voice,  when  this  miracle  took 
place,  could  not  have  served  him  for  a  word.  It  filled 
him  with  wonder  to  think  this  woman  needed  so  little 
turning-space  for  her  emotions;  her  passion  doubled 
like  a  hare,  with  such  celerity  the  eye  could  scarce  be- 
lieve the  movement,  and  would  have  suspected  its  own 
testimony  sooner  than  credit  her  agility. 

"  Oh,  yes,  I  am  here ! "  he  heard  the  familiar  voice 
return,  with  all  its  old  serenity  and  assurance.  "  Where 
else,  indeed,  should  I  be?  But  you  are  here,  too,  Bella 
— and  I  can't  understand  that,  for  by  now  you  should 
be  far  away  and  fast  asleep.  Whatever  has  brought 
you  downstairs  again,  child  ? " 

"  I  could  not  sleep — I  heard  a  dog  crying.    Oh,  ever 


"He  heard  Mrs.  Dysart  exclaim:  •  Bella!' 


BELLA 


327 


such  a  long  while.  Mrs.  Herring  says  some  one's  going 
to  die  when  they  do  like  that,  and  I  wondered  who  it 
cduld  be.  A  dog  did  that  when  her  uncle  died,  so  it's 
quite  true.  She  says  dogs  can  smell  death  ever  so  far 
away,  and  after  awhile  I  was  sure  I  could  smell  it  too, 
and  got  out  of  bed  and  put  on  these.  Leonie  was 
making  a  dreadful  noise  with  her  nose  and  it  frightened 
me  worse.  I  wanted  to  wake  her,  but  I  daredn't,  be- 
cause she  would  have  been  angry.  And  then  I  made 
up  my  mind  to  slip  out  to  your  bedroom — for  I  thought 
1  didn't  know  who  the  dog  could  mean.  Mrs.  Her- 
ring says  it's  some  of  your  own  flesh  and  blood,  that's 
bred  in  the  bone.  And  you,  of  course — you  are  all  I've 
got.  Except  Roo.  And  I  love  him  too.  O  my!  But 
he's  not  bred  in  the  bone,  so  I  knew  the  dog  didn't 
mean  him.  First  of  all  I  prayed  the  dog  might  have 
made  a  mistake  and  meant  somebody  else — ever  so  far 
away.  And  as  soon  as  ever  I  came  out  on  to  the  land- 
ing I  knew  it  had,  for  I  saw  the  light  in  the  hall,  and 
your  bedroom  door  was  open —  And  I  came  down- 
stairs, and  here  I  am.  O  my !  " 

"You  dear  little  goose!"  Mrs.  Dysart  told  her. 
"Allowing  yourself  to  be  stuffed  with  Mrs.  Herring's 
sage  and  onions  and  stories  of  barking  dogs !  If  some- 
body had  to  die  every  time  a  dog  cried,  Bella,  there 
would  soon  be  an  end  to  German  bands."  She  released 
the  girl  from  the  closeness  of  her  embrace  and  laughed 
over  her  with  indulgent  merriment,  in  a  loosened  circle 
of  arm.  "  There,  there !  "  She  stooped  suddenly  for- 
ward and  stopped  her  laughter  with  two  resolutely 
placed  kisses.  "  Kiss  me  again,  Bella,  and  go  back  to 
bed  like  the  good  girl  you  are— now  that  you  see  for 
yourself  what  nonsense  the  dog  has  been  telling  you. 
And  don't  let's  talk  about  dying  when  mamma  has  Roo 
to  take  care  of  her." 


328  BELLA 

He  winced  guiltily  under  the  words,  as  to  the  playful 
menace  of  a  blow. 

"You  call  him  Roo,  too,"  Bella  noticed,  with  the 
quick  perception  of  her  thirteen  years,  and  then,  with- 
out giving  space  for  a  reply,  tilted  up  her  dear  head  in 
petition,  speaking  with  the  thin  and  clear  and  hurried 
voice  for  favors.  "  Let  me  stay  a  little  while,  mamma ! 
Only  a  little  while.  Do !  Let  me  sit  between  you  both, 
and  Roo  can  tell  me  things  to  make  me  forget  all  about 
the  dog,  and  I  will  go  as  soon  as  ever  you  say  I  mustn't 
ask  to  sit  up  any  longer." 

"  But,  dear  child !  You  mustn't  really  ask  to  sit  up 
any  longer,  now!  Do  you  know  what  time  it  is?" 

"  No.  Don't  tell  me,  and  then  it  won't  seem  so  late. 
I  couldn't  sleep  all  at  once,  even  if  I  went  to  bed." 
She  caught  keen  sight  of  the  concession  deep  down  in 
the  current  of  Mrs.  Dysart's  eyes,  rippling  up  to  her  on 
an  amused  bubble.  "  I  know !  "  she  cried,  showering 
her  laughter  on  them  both.  "  It's  '  yes '  and  '  what  a 
funny  girl  I  am,  Bella ! '  O  my !  make  way  for  me 
please,  and  cuddle  me  up  close.  It's  lovely.  I'm  glad 
the  dog  woke  me  up — aren't  you  ?  "  And  a  moment 
later  she  was  sandwiched  between  them  on  the  sofa, 
with  the  Poet's  overcoat  extemporized  over  her  knees 
as  though  she  were  driving  a  bus,  her  arms  linking  all 
three  into  a  companionship  of  smiles.  First  the  Poet 
must  tell  her  all  about  Mr.  Pendlip  and  the  dinner; 
then  they  must  re-partake  of  that  wonderful  tea, 
scarcely  less  real  in  the  repetition  than  in  the  actuality, 
and  Bella  must  tell  the  Poet  once  more  how  much  she 
loves  this  friend  of  theirs,  and  now — to-morrow — he 
shall  not  leave  them,  but  shall  stay,  O  my!  stay  ever  so 
long,  and  see  mamma,  and  have  tea  with  mamma  and 
all  of  them  in  the  garden.  And  then,  when  they  have 
talked  like  this  awhile,  and  Mrs.  Dysart's  voice  sounds 


BELLA  329 

a  warning  "  Bella !  "  Bella  protests :  "  No,  no,  no  Not 
yet,  mamma.  Don't  say  '  Bella '  yet.  Let  Roo  tell  me 
a- fairy-tale  first— a  lovely  long  one,  and  then  I  will 
go  as  good  as  good.  Begin  '  Once  upon  a  time.'  O  my ! 
I  love  'once  upon  a  time'  best,  don't  you?" 

So  the  Poet— almost  as  fanciful  a  being  to  himself 
as  any  of  these  extravagant  creatures  feigned  for  Bella 
—told  the  girl  a  fairy-tale  beginning  even  as  she  wished : 
"Once  upon  a  time."  By  all  dramatic  precedent  the 
tale  should  have  contained  an  allegory;  under  guise  of 
a  story  for  the  girl  he  should  have  preached  a  parable 
to  the  woman.  But  the  idea  did  not  come  upon  him 
till  too  late,  and  merely  then  in  a  vision  of  satire  on 
the  situation,  without  the  least  thought  to  make  use 
of  it.  At  the  end  of  half  an  hour  Bella  rose  out  of 
her  sheath  like  a  nodding  night  breeze  from  some 
drowsy  hollow,  winding  her  arms  flaggingly  round  Mrs. 
Dysart's  neck.  Sleep  lay  on  her  lashes,  extinguishing 
the  winking  tapers  in  her  gray  eyes,  and  drawing  down 
their  curtains  to  sweet  slumber.  "  Good-night,"  she 
said,  squeezing  out  round-mouthed  kisses,  and  echoing 
good-nights,  held  up  her  mouth  to  the  Poet  with  the 
kiss  already  formed  on  it.  For  the  first  time  since  their 
friendship  the  Poet  received  the  token  with  feeling  of 
shame,  as  if  he  took  a  gift  from  one  already  robbed. 
He  did  not  look  at  Mrs.  Dysart. 

"  To-morrow,"  said  Bella  dreamily,  her  lips  released, 
"  we  will  go  and  see  Mr.  Pendlip  again." 

"  To-morrow  never  conies,  Bella ! "  the  Poet  re- 
minded her  with  a  smile. 

"To-day  then!"  Bella  substituted.  "O  my!  It 
must  be  to-day  by  this  time,  mustn't  it ! " 

"Yes.  We  are  all  of  us  a  day  older,  Bella,  since 
you  came  downstairs.  A  day  older,  and  I  hope  a  day 
wiser."  That  last  was  for  Mrs.  Dysart,  and  Mrs. 
22 


330  BELLA 

Dysart  did  not  mistake  the  motive.  She  watched  Bella's 
going  with  her  elbow  on  her  knee  and  her  throat  sup- 
ported in  the  hollow  of  her  outspread  hand.  The  smile 
of  motherhood  was  on  her  lips ;  no  more. 

"  O  my !  I  don't  know  about  a  day  wiser !  "  Bella 
confided.  "  I  don't  think  I  feel  any  wiser.  I  don't  think 
I  want  to  feel  any  wiser.  I'd  rather  be  very,  very 
happy."  By  the  door  she  turned  with  one  of  her  sudden 
impulses  to  ask  the  Poet :  "  Have  you  noticed  my 
dressing-gown  ?  Do  you  like  it  ?  " 

"  Very  much,  Bella." 

"  I'm  glad  you've  seen  it.  I  have  another  at  home. 
Almost  nicer  than  this,  but  I  don't  know.  I'm  ever  so 
sleepy,  now.  Good-night,  mamma.  Good-night,  Roo." 

He  came  out  into  the  hall,  ostensibly  to  see  the  last 
of  her,  but  not  less  with  a  purpose  to  protract  the 
moment  when  he  must  meet  those  deep  eyes  once  more. 
Her  white-shod  feet  went  "  plop,  plop,"  one  after  the 
other  up  the  stairs  like  baby  rabbits;  her  head  nodded. 
At  the  bend  in  the  staircase  she  stooped  and  called 
his  name  with  the  aroused  voice  of  interest. 

"Roo!" 

"  Yes." 

"  My  hair's  not  really  red,  is  it  ?  " 

"Not  a  bit.    Why?" 

"  Nothing.     Only  Leonie  says  it  is.     That's  all." 

"  Does  Leonie  sleep  with  her  mouth  open  ?  " 

"  Sometimes." 

"Drop  the  soap  into  it,  Bella." 

"  O  my !  " 

Two  more  good-nights  and  that  was  all.  He  re- 
mained for  some  time  longer  outside  the  door  in  the 
attitude  of  a  listener — but  that  was  not  because  of  the 
girl.  Only  because  of  the  woman,  sitting  motionless 
and  expectant  in  the  room  beyond. 


XLV 

A  ND  then  he  turned  into  the  room  again.  Where  he 
/*>  had  sat  of  late  by  Mrs.  Dysart's  side  and  passed 
through  that  soul's  ordeal  by  combat,  merely  his  coat 
lay  now,  limp  and  inanimate,  like  a  passion  slain  upon 
the  field.  His  temptress,  with  both  hands  interlocked 
about  her  knee,  lay  back  amid  the  cushions  to  the  limit 
of  her  straightened  arms.  Her  chin  made  a  pit  for 
itself  in  the  softness  of  her  breast ;  her  lips  were  parted 
in  a  sustained  smile;  her  eyes,  gazing  upward  through 
their  screen  of  lashes,  intently  watchful.  They  fol- 
lowed the  Poet  in  curious  interrogation,  part  whimsical, 
part  grave,  part  wistful  as  he  crossed  to  the  fireplace 
and  took  up  his  station  with  an  arm  measured  out 
against  the  length  of  the  mantel.  The  action  was  clear. 
There  was  no  mistaking  that  definition  of  distance  be- 
tween them.  For  awhile  each  held  back  on  the  an- 
ticipation of  the  other's  words ;  words  seemed  immi- 
nent alike  behind  the  woman's  smile  and  the  Poet's 
grave  repression.  Some  other  of  her  sex,  perhaps  of 
less  discernment  than  Mrs.  Dysart,  not  knowing,  or 
affecting  to  ignore,  of  what  ingredients  the  silence  was 
compounded,  might  have  cracked  it  inconsequently  like 
an  egg,  laughing  this  late  interruption  aside,  and  all 
that  pertained  to  it.  But  Mrs.  Dysart  had  a  finer  wit, 
a  deeper  understanding  than  that.  Her  beauty  was  not 
of  the  flesh  alone ;  spirit  mingled  with  it  too.  Passion, 
once  damped  and  trodden  underfoot,  requires  a  two- 
fold labor  to  rekindle.  The  spirit  of  the  girl  still  lin- 

331 


332  BELLA 

gered  vital  in  the  room,  and  made  a  seemly  barrier 
between  them.  And  it  was  the  thought  and  memory 
of  her  that  prompted  the  Poet's  first  words. 

"  There  goes  somebody,"  he  said  at  length,  "  whom 
we  both  love  better  than  ourselves." 

The  little  flame  of  laughter  illuminating  Mrs.  Dy- 
sart's  lips  flickered  in  the  sense  of  his  words. 

"  You  mean —  ? "  she  asked,  for  all  she  knew  well 
what  he  meant. 

"  There  is  only  one  meaning." 

"  That  makes  it  the  easier  to  overlook." 

"  It  is — for  our  sakes  and  Bella's  sake — good-by." 

"  Again  ?  What !  You  are  revoking  to-night  like 
a  woman.  I  thought  you  were  void  of  that  suit  half 
an  hour  ago.  When  am  I  to  take  you  at  your  word? " 

"  Now." 

"Why  now?" 

"  Because  you  never  took  me  before." 

"  That  proves  my  wisdom." 

"  Here  is  a  chance  to  prove  your  generosity." 

"  I  have  proved  that  already." 

"In  what  way?" 

"  In  what  way  ?  "  She  laughed  with  the  slightest 
taste  of  bitterness  on  her  lips.  "  You  have  a  man's 
memory  for  favors!  It  is  poor  thanks  when  the  giver 
must  record  the  gift.  If  I  had  plucked  you  a  rose,  at 
least  you  would  have  worn  it  in  your  buttonhole  till 
you  had  left  me.  Yet  I  have  plucked  and  offered  you 
more  than  that.  Much  more.  The  very  most  that  a 
woman  has  to  offer.  Was  it  so  little,  then?  Have  you 
so  soon  forgotten  ?  " 

"  Heaven  knows  I  have  not." 

"  Oh !  If  my  kisses  were  not  sweet  enough they 

will  soon  ripen  with  the  warmth  of  a  little  loving. 
Love's  fruit  ripens  like  all  others  in  the  hot  places. 


BELLA  333 

Come,  you  have  tasted  me,  Rupert.  Don't  throw  me 
aside  so  soon.  Throw  me  aside  later,  if  you  like,  when 
you  have  grown  tired  of  me.  Leave  me  when  you  have 
learned,  through  loving,  to  hate  me  a  little— as  all  men 
do  in  the  end.  Let  us  part,  if  we  are  to  part,  on  some 
pretext  of  a  quarrel  that  leaves  me  a  little  anger  for  my 
self-respect." 

She  pitched  her  voice  persuasively  with  unimpas- 
sioned  eloquence  so  as  just  to  reach  him  and  no  more; 
still  nursing  her  knee  in  the  cradle  of  her  interlinked 
hands.  There  were  moments  when  she  looked  to  sit 
to  an  invisible  harp,  drawing  soft  and  bitter  sweetness 
from  its  strings. 

"  I  could  never  hate  you,"  he  declared. 

She  shook  a  smiling  head.  "  What  did  courageous 
Peter  say?" 

"  Oh !  If  you  think  I  could  not  love  you,"  he  told 
her  through  his  tightened  lips,  "  if  you  think  it  is  easy 
for  me — to  talk  conscience  and  duty!— But  you  do  not. 
You  know  how  long  I  have  been  wavering  between 
those  and  you;  what  a  struggle  it  has  been,  and  might 
be  still.  I  am  not  spurning  your  generosity.  I  only 
ask  less  of  it  than  you  would  give." 

"  Yes,  yes,"  she  struck  in.  "  I  know  you  are.  But 
when  woman  has  offered  herself,  to  ask  for  less  is  to 
refuse  all.  Once  she  has  poured  herself  out  like  wine 
into  the  glass,  it  is  drink  or  spill." 

"  That  is  not  true  in  this  case,  or  of  me." 

"  It  is  true.    I  am  a  woman.    I  speak  for  my  sex." 

"  You  are  more  than  a  woman."  He  grew  courage- 
ous. "  You  are  a  mother,  too." 

"  You  are  unkind  to  remind  me  of  it." 

"  I  say  it  to  remind  us  both.  Let  us  at  least  be 
true  to  her.  I  hold  Bella's  friendship  as  sacred  as 
anything  in  the  world.  Don't  ask  me  to  desecrate  that. 


334  BELLA 

Let  us  keep  it  pure  and  free  of  self-reproach.  As  for 
ourselves — let  us  be  what  we  have  been,  and  still  are, 
for  Bella's  sake.  Friends." 

"  Friends !  "  Mrs.  Dysart  breathed  bitterness  upon 
the  word.  "  You  ask  too  little  of  me,"  she  said,  "  and 
in  exchange  you  wish  to  give  too  much.  With  me,  you 
know  it,  friendships  are  impossible.  For  your  love  I 
can  give  you  love,  as  much  as  you  need;  as  much  as 
ever  you  ask.  But  when  you  talk  of  friendship — you 
know  it  is  a  thing  I  cannot  return." 

"  You  misjudge  me.  I  do  not  know  it.  I  will  not 
admit  it.  I  offer  you  my  friendship  as  freely  as  I  ask 
for  yours." 

"Mine!"  She  laughed  dimly.  "What  is  mine?  A 
thing  you  could  never  acknowledge.  A  gift  you  would 
try  to  hide.  Oh,  I  know!  You  will  deny  it  and  talk 
as  much  chivalry  as  Don  Quixote  here  in  this  room, 
alone  with  me.  But  once  outside  in  the  world,  you  will 
admit  the  truth  of  it  quickly  enough.  WThere  is  the 
wisdom  in  buying  worthless  friendship  at  the  price  for 
which  you  could  have  real  love?  A  woman  will  not  sell 
herself  too  cheap,  but  by  the  man  she  cares  for  she  will 
not  let  herself  be  bought  too  dear.  What !  Your  friend 
has  come  over  two  hundred  miles  to  try  and  tear  you 
from  me,  and  you  still  think  friendship  possible!  How 
much  credit  has  the  world  given  our  friendship?  How 
much  would  it  give?  So  little  that  you  seek  to  leave 
me.  You  speak  of  friendship  when  all  the  while  you 
mean  flight.  Oh,  I  know  these  covert  farewell  friend- 
ships— mere  hands  put  out  to  take  leave;  warm  and 
fervid  and  substantial  while  one  clasps  them,  and  then 
— gone!  How  many  lovers  have  we  women  lost 
through  friendship,  a  door  through  which  we  may  not 
follow,  and  through  which  they  never  return." 

If  there  were  bitterness   in  her  words  it  was  not 


BELLA  335 

aimed  at  him.  She  spoke  with  the  spirit  of  a  smile  still 
pervading  her  lips;  her  submissive  candor  smote  him. 
He  beheld  Truth  like  a  dragon  that  led  on  Beauty,  and 
his  courage  would  have  been  St.  George,  to  engage 
with  this  monster  and  slay  him,  but  reason  perceived  the 
folly  of  the  combat  and  restrained  the  futile  ardors 
of  youth.  For  awhile  his  lips  lacked  any  words  to 
say,  and  they  faced  each  other  silently;  he  with  his 
arm  against  the  mantel;  she  with  one  white  hand  inert 
upon  the  upholstered  back  of  the  settee,  and  the  other 
softly  outspread  upon  her  bosom,  its  fingers  plucking 
at  her  pearls.  And  then,  of  a  sudden,  the  Poet  found 
his  tongue. 

"  Let  us  talk  of  Bella." 

She  made  a  lifting  movement  of  her  lashes,  almost 
supplicating. 

"Why  of  Bella?" 

"  Because  we  are  both  of  us  better  than  ourselves 
when  we  talk  of  her." 

"  Is  it  fair  to  use  my  child  against  me  ?  "  Her  lips 
preserved  their  smile  of  defensive  insincerity,  but  he 
heard  the  tones  of  anxiousness  behind  them;  the  appre- 
hensions of  a  heart  that  can  face  truth  on  all  sides  but 
this. 

"  Against  you,  no.  But  for  you,  I  think  yes.  Be- 
sides  it  was  to  speak  about  Bella  that  I  came  to- 
night." 

She  twisted  her  lips  with  the  brief  wry  face  for  sour 
fruit,  and  said:  "You  are  complimentary."  But  there 
was  curious  interest  enveloped  in  the  laugh  that  fol- 
lowed. "I  flattered  myself  you  had  come  to  see 

me." 

"  I  will  tell  you  the  truth  now.    I  was  frightened  of 

you." 

"Why?" 


336  BELLA 

"  Because  I  had  reason.  I  feared  for  all  my  good 
resolutions." 

"  What  good  resolutions  were  those  ?  " 

"  Ah !  You  may  well  ask  that.  I  asked  it,  too,  be- 
fore Bella  came  downstairs.  But  for  her  there  would 
be  none  left." 

"You  mean  your  going  away?" 

"  That  is  only  one  of  them." 

"  Only  one !    There  were  others  ?  " 

"  I  was  filled  with  good  resolutions  when  I  came." 

"  Your  good  resolutions  cannot  have  concerned  me. 
Nobody's  good  resolutions  were  ever  to  my  advantage." 

"  They  concerned  us  all.     But  chiefly  Bella." 

"Bella!     You  think  very  much  of  Bella." 

"  I  think  deeply  much  of  Bella." 

"  More  than  you  think  of  me ! " 

"  More  almost  than  of  anybody." 

"  Certainly  more  than  I  had  understood.  I  thought 
perhaps — but  it  must  have  been  my  vanity — that  you 
made  much  of  her  because " 

"Because?" 

"  Because it  seems  a  ridiculous  confession  now — 

because  of  me." 

"  You  are  partly  right.  It  was  because  of  you  both. 
I  scarcely  understood  my  own  mind.  Bella  is  but  a 
child,  and  you  seemed  like  a  grown-up  Bella.  Some- 
times at  night,  when  you  were  seated  at  the  piano, 
singing  to  me,  I  saw  Bella's  face  exact;  the  very  look 
about  the  lips  and  eyes.  It  felt  for  all  the  world  as 
if  ten  years  had  passed  by  since  dinner,  and  Bella  was 
grown  into  a  woman — as  some  day  this  must  come  to 
pass.  She  cannot  always  be  the  child." 

"  You  did  not  come  to  talk  to  me  of  this  ?  " 

"Of  nothing  else." 

"  Why  ? — And  yet  you  are  going  to  leave  Spathorpe ! 


BELLA 


337 


I   cannot  understand.     What  has  all  this  to  do  with 
you  ? " 

"Just  as  much  or  as  little  as  you  will  allow.  Will 
you— will  you  be  offended  with  me  if  I  take  the  liberty 
to  speak  very  openly.  I  think  we  are  friends  enough 
for  that.  At  first  I  was  too  much  of  a  coward.  But 
I  feel  brave  enough  for  anything  now.  I  want  to  be 
frightfully  rude.  May  I?" 

"  If  you  like.  I  am  not  frightened  of  any  rudeness 
that  comes  from  you." 

"Then  tell  me.  I  want  to  ask.  It  is  a  question 
that  has  often  been  in  my  mind — but  never  so  keenly 
as  to-night.  What  is  going  to  happen  to  Bella?"  He 
saw  the  wince  in  Mrs.  Dysart's  eyes,  and  the  con- 
striction of  her  lips. 

"  How  do  you  mean !    Happen  to  her !    When  ? " 

"  Now.     At  any  time.     As  she  grows  older." 

"  God  knows Do  you  think  I  haven't  thought 

about  that?" 

"  And  what  conclusion  have  you  come  to  ?  " 

"  None."  The  hopeless  brevity  of  the  answer  be- 
trayed the  degree  of  effort  required  to  speak  it.  The 
mouth,  of  late  so  laughing  and  seductive,  was  strained 
and  careworn,  showing  her  countenance  older.  Con- 
science, filled  with  self-rebuke  and  fears,  seemed  to 
wring  hands  behind  the  window  of  her  beauty. 

"  But  you  know  the  danger  threatening  her  ?  She 
cannot  be  kept  a  child  forever.  A  year  or  two— no 
more  than  that,  and  her  mind  will  be  alive.  She  will 
seek  to  inquire— to  understand  many  things.  And 
then " 

Mrs.  Dysart  framed  lips  of  remonstrance  and  appeal. 

"  Don't." 

"  But  I  must.  To-night  it  is  necessary  we  talk  of 
all  these  things." 


338  BELLA 

"  I  know  what  you  want  to  say.  That  I  am  a 
wicked  worthless  woman,  unfit  to  have  the  care  of  my 
own  daughter.  That  I  am  a  danger  to  her  purity  and 
happiness.  Oh!  Do  you  think  I  don't  know  all  that 
without  being  told.  Do  you  think  I  haven't  a  con- 
science ?  " 

"  That  is  not  in  the  least  what  I  meant  to  say." 

"A  conscience  all  the  more  terrible  for  being  sup- 
pressed and  scorned.  The  doctor  told  me  I  must  take 
care  of  my  heart.  But  for  Bella  I  could  wish  it  were 
broken,  at  times.  I  don't  fear  death  for  all  I  am  a 
woman.  Death  is  as  kind  as  the  world,  and  a  friend, 
at  least,  that  one  can  never  lose.  But  if  I  were  to  die 
— what  would  become  of  Bella?  And  yet,  if  I  live — 
what  must  become  of  her?  Alive  or  dead  it  seems  as 
if  I  can  only  bring  injury  to  the  one  I  love  before  all 
and  everybody  in  the  world.  For  God  knows  I  do  love 
her;  have  loved  her  from  the  first  hour  she  brought 
me  suffering,  and  taught  me  the  blessedness  of  pain. 
I  would  give  all  the  blood  in  my  veins  to  save  one  hair 
of  her  head  from  hurt.  She  is  the  only  thing  in  life 
I  value;  the  only  thing  I  live  for,  and  not  even  the 
remorse  she  makes  me  feel  can  take  away  that  joy 
from  my  cup.  She  alone  makes  the  cup  bitter;  it  is 
she  alone  that  sweetens  it.  Without  her  I  could  live 
or  die  with  equal  indifference.  With  her  I  can  do 
neither.  I  ought  to  have  died  years  ago,  when  Bella 
was  born.  I  see  it  now.  We  see  all  these  things  when 
it  is  too  late. 

"  And  yet — I  am  not  so  very  much  more  wicked 
than  the  rest  of  women.  After  all,  there  is  not  such 
a  tremendous  difference  between  the  sinner  and  the 
saint.  It's  merely  the  point  of  view.  The  one  makes 
a  pleasure  of  pain;  the  other,  a  pain  of  pleasure.  Each 
secretly  envies  the  other's  life,  and  finds  discontent  with 


BELLA  339 

his  own  Do  you  think,  if  I  could,  I  would  not  gladly 
change  the  liberty  of  the  world  for  the  pious  cruse 
•and  crust,  and  the  quiet  cell;  for  a  little  respite  from 
the  tyranny  of  laughter?  Oh!  don't  imagine  I  wish  to 
make  the  Saint  Nitouche.  I  am  not  trying  to  justify 
myself.  I  am  willing  to  pray  with  the  publican :  '  Lord, 
be  merciful  to  me,  a  sinner,'  for  we  are  all  sinners 
that  wilfully  fall  short  of  the  best  in  us.  I  have  had 
my  good  resolutions,  like  you;  a  whole  service  of  them, 
though  most  of  the  pieces  are  broken  now.  Only  a 
cracked  and  broken  few  remain. 

"But  I  don't  want  to  sicken  you  with  confession 
and  repentance  that  seek  to  put  all  the  blame  on  to 
somebody  else's  shoulders.  Perhaps  I  should  not  lack 
for  shoulders,  but  it  does  not  matter  very  much  who 
devised  the  feast,  now  one  is  left  to  pay  the  reckoning. 
Years  ago,  when  I  was  but  a  girl—"  she  broke  off. 
"  No !  I  will  not  tell  you.  I  will  be  stronger  than  that. 
Women  only  confess  themselves  when  it  is  useless  any 
longer  to  profess.  Confession  is  the  side-door  to 
esteem.  If  we  cannot  enter  a  heart  through  respect, 
we  try  to  reach  it  contemptibly  by  pity.  Oh,  yes.  It 
is  true.  I  have  only  to  spill  a  few  tears;  to  wet  my 
lashes  with  them;  to  make  my  bosom  rise  and  fall; 
to  put  my  hands  before  my  face,  and  you  would  begin 
to  falter  under  your  good  resolutions.  When  all  seems 
lost,  a  woman  has  still  her  tears.  When  all  seems  won, 
a  man  has  still  his  vanity,  that  loves  to  be  wept  for." 

And  so  much,  indeed,  had  the  emotion  of  her  own 
words  stirred  her,  that,  when  she  stopped  on  a  sudden, 
her  lashes  had  actually  begun  to  gleam.  She  tried  to 
smile  at  him  through  beautiful  magnified  eyes,  and  for 
a  moment,  while  the  tears  grew  and  dissolved,  there 
was  a  silence  between  them.  Had  Mrs.  Dysart,  even 
then,  turned  those  wet  and  quivering  lashes  to  account, 


340  BELLA 

and  tried  on  her  opponent  the  feint  so  frankly  exposed, 
who  knows?  She  might  have  had  him  at  her  side  again. 
She  held  his  destiny  within  her  dewy  lashes  as  a  sor- 
ceress holds  the  world  in  her  crystal,  and  the  Poet's 
heart  trembled.  But  the  woman  laughed  instead,  shak- 
ing away  like  rain  the  tears  that  gathered  in  her  eyes, 
with  a  beautiful  admission  of  folly. 

"  There,  there ! "  she  said.  "  See  how  easily  a 
woman  weeps !  As  easily  as  a  man  forgets.  I  could 
have  cried  more  effectively  than  that,  believe  me — had 
I  wished,  but  I  gave  you  my  word.  Well,  what  were 
we  talking  about  ?  Oh,  I  remember.  It  was  my  wicked- 
ness. You  said  I  was  unfit  to  have  the  charge  of  a 
daughter.  I  think  you  are  quite  right.  I  have  thought 
the  same  for  years." 


XLVI 

**T    SAY   such   a  thing?     You  wrong  me.     Never 

•••      in  this  world." 

He  had  listened  to  her  words  with  the  silence  that 
pays  respect,  not  acquiescence.  All  the  while  she  was 
speaking  his  conscience  cried :  "  No,  no !  "  but  her  words 
came  out  of  the  fullness  of  a  heart,  like  worshipers 
from  the  house  of  God,  and  speech,  though  of  another 
persuasion,  stood  aside  and  did  not  tax  them.  "  If  I 
had  said  anything  I  should  have  said  this:  The  world 
contains  no  better  mother." 

The  assertion  drew  her  eyes  upon  him,  widened  and 
inquiring. 

"  How  do  you  mean  ?    Why  do  you  say  that  ? " 

"  Because  I  believe  it." 

"There  is  something  you  hide  from  me." 

"  Nothing." 

"  Something  I  am  not  clever  enough  to  understand." 

"Not  at  all.  You  understand  Bella.  Bella  is  the 
proof  of  my  assertion.  If  you  need  any  better  tribute 
to  your  care  than  Bella,  tell  me  where  it  is  to  be  found." 

"  Ah— Bella !  "  she  cried,  as  if  the  mere  word  Bella 
explained  all.  "But  it  is  no  tribute  to  my  care;  the 
tribute  is  to  herself.  She  cannot  help  being  what  she 
is.  It  is  not  because  I  have  not  neglected  her." 

"  Whatever  you  may  say  of  yourself  you  have  given 
her  nature  what  it  needed.     Love,  indulgence,  gen< 
osity,  the  influence  of  your  own  beauty.    All  that  Bell; 
has,    she   owes   to   herself   and  you.     In   hands 

341 


342  BELLA 

scrupulous  for  her  welfare  she  might  have  been  ter- 
ribly otherwise.  Let  us  believe  in  Providence,  shall 
we?  for  once;  and  say  that  in  this  worst  of  all  possible 
worlds  you  were  chosen  designedly  for  Bella's  good. 
That  is  what  I  believe.  Believe  it  with  me,  too.  Let 
us,  from  to-night,  look  upon  ourselves  as  the  ministers 
of  Providence.  Providence  gave  Bella  to  you,  Provi- 
dence brought  Bella  to  me.  Providence  made  no  mis- 
take in  her  choice  of  mother.  Providence — well,  I  hope 
it — made  no  mistake  in  her  choice  of  friends.  There 
was  horrible  scope  for  error  in  both.  And  now,  what 
Providence  has  begun — let  us  complete.  Providence 
has  confidence  in  you.  I  have  confidence  in  you.  Provi- 
dence has  confidence  in  me.  Have  confidence  in  me, 
too.  I  ask  leave  to  be  your  friend,  and  Bella's  friend. 
Will  you  let  me?" 

"  Oh,  my  friend  Rupert !  "  she  said.  She  was  twist- 
ing her  rings ;  her  chin  steeped  in  her  bosom  once  more ; 
her  eyes  wonderingly  on  him.  "  You  have  a  heart  too 
large  for  you.  You  don't  know  what  you  are  saying. 
You  follow  the  sentiment  and  lose  the  fact.  It  is  beau- 
tiful, but  impossible,  all  this.  Life  is  what  yo'u  make 
it,  for  you.  I  am  what  life  makes  me.  You  don't 
realize  the  difference  between  us;  the  insuperable  diffi- 
culties for  me." 

"  Tell  me  what  they  are." 

"  Ah,  no !  "  She  shook  her  head.  "  There  are  some 
things  a  woman  cannot  confess — to  anybody  she  cares 
for." 

"  May  a  man  guess  at  them  ?  " 

She  protested.  "  Not  even  that — "  but  he  over- 
rode the  objection. 

"  Have  these  insuperable  difficulties  to  do  with 
money?  There,  I  have  been  brutal.  Be  as  brutal  in 
return,  and  tell  me  the  truth." 


BELLA  343 

She  demurred,  "  No,  no.    After  all " 

He  persisted :  "  Have  they  ?  " 
"  I  will  not  answer." 

"  You  have  answered.    Those  are  no  difficulties  " 

"You  think  not?" 

"  I  am  sure  not." 

"For  you,  perhaps  not.  But  for  me—  Do  you 
think  I  would —  -  No,  no !  You  cannot  imagine.  I  have 
my  pride,  friend  Rupert,  it  is  my  substitute  for  reputa- 
tion. I  will  accept  nothing  I  cannot  repay." 

"  But  you  shall  accept  this  in  trust  for  Bella.  Bella 
shall  repay." 

"How?" 

"Oh,  I  don't  know  how,  and  I  don't  know  when, 
and  I  don't  know  where.  Perhaps  some  day  by  letting 
me  be  witness  of  the  happiness  I  have  helped  to  make 
for  her.  That  would  be  repayment  enough.  All  we 
ask  of  a  flower  is  that  it  shall  bloom  for  us.  You 
know  Bella  is  my  little  sister,  and  I  am  Bella's  big 
brother.  It  is  all  drawn  up  on  paper,  and  signed  and 
witnessed.  I  want  my  little  sister  to  grow  up  in  com- 
pany with  all  her  virtues;  to  lose  not  one  of  them 
by  the  way;  to  grow  up  good,  and  wise,  and  healthy, 
and  beautiful;  shielded  from  all  harm  and  every  sort 
of  danger — from  the  corrupting  goodness  as  well  as 
the  corrupting  evil  of  the  world.  Perhaps — if  I  could 
have  my  way,  she  should  not  grow  up  at  all.  I  would 
keep  her  just  as  she  is,  for  I  don't  see  how  we  can 
improve  on  her.  But  Nature  doesn't  listen  to  our  fears, 
and  Time  won't  stop  for  us.  Help  me  to  keep  her  close 
to  what  she  is.  Give  her  all  your  love  and  all  your  care, 
and  the  best  and  noblest  of  your  wisdom.  You  are 
beautiful,  your  beauty  will  encourage  hers.  You  are 
generous,  cultured,  gracious.  You  can  teach  her  much. 
And  you  are  good,  too.  Oh,  yes,  I  mean  it.  I  believe  it. 


344  BELLA 

No  good  mother  can  ever  be  a  bad  woman.  Let  us  do 
our  part  for  Bella,  and  then,  for  the  rest,  leave  every- 
thing to  Providence.  Providence  won't  betray  us  now." 

"  Do  you  mean  all  this  ?  " 

"  I  mean  every  word  of  it." 

For  a  space  she  looked  at  him  with  eyes  that  shone 
with  tender  gratitude  and  admiration,  as  if  the  beauty 
of  the  thing  preached  converted  her  doubts  almost  to 
believe.  And  then  stern  reality  wrung  the  softening 
faith  out  of  her  gaze,  and  put  her  convert  longings  to 
flight. 

"  Ah,  no !  It  is  impossible.  You  are  become 
Poetry.  Because  you  see  beauty  in  an  idea  you  seek 
to  perpetuate  it;  to  make  it  permanent  and  real;  and 
there  are  beauties  of  a  sort  that  must  not  touch  reality 
— that  are  destroyed  the  moment  you  try  to  capture 
them,  like  fragile  butterflies.  On  one  generous  impulse 
you  would  build  a  whole  prison  of  hopeless  regrets. 
This  obligation  you  espouse  so  warmly  would  grow 
heavier  with  each  year;  with  each  month;  each  week. 
You  would  find  it  in  the  end  intolerable.  Even  the 
noblest  impulse  dies  down,  but  the  consequences  stay 
behind.  Once  the  divine  fire  is  out,  the  soul  in  which 
it  burned  is  filled  with  mere  ashes.  You  would  repent 
horribly,  tied  to  your  indiscretion  like  a  man  to  a  wife 
grown  hateful.  All  of  us  would  suffer.  It  would  be 
tragic." 

"  Nevertheless — we  will  risk  the  tragedy.  All  life 
is  tragic  in  some  part  of  it.  Every  error  man  makes 
has  its  tragic  opportunity.  We  have  been  very  near  to 
tragedy,  perhaps,  to-night — for  one  or  other  of  us.  Who 
knows !  " 

"  To-morrow,"  she  went  on,  "  you  are  running 
away  from  us  to  save  your  character.  And  yet,  with 
such  a  necessity  as  that  to  teach  you  the  stern  truth, 


BELLA 


345 


you  talk  wildly  of  noble  things,  as  if  the  world  had  no 
tongue,  nor  you  a  heart  to  be  afraid  of  it." 

"  The  world  has  a  short  memory.  Poets  have  been 
singing  that  for  centuries.  And  I  am  not  running  away 
now  merely  to  save  my  character— that  appears  to  be 
gone  already.  I  am  going  simply  so  that  the  world 
may  have  a  chance  to  forget.  The  world  will  forget  in 
time.  Other  more  brilliant  and  audacious  sinners  than 
ourselves  will  take  our  place.  In  Spathorpe,  after  all, 
we  have  been  indiscreet.  Spathorpe  is  only  a  small  place. 
Towns  grow  more  tolerant  as  they  grow  bigger.  In 
London,  Paris,  Berlin,  this  would  never  have  hap- 
pened. To-morrow,  think  only  that  I  go  to  lay  the 
foundations  of  Bella's  future  happiness.  You  said  you 
would  gladly  exchange  your  liberty  of  the  world  for 
the  recluse's  cruse  and  crust.  You  hated  your  life,  and 
the  slavery  of  laughter.  Well,  I  want  to  prove  your 
sincerity,  for  Bella's  sake.  For  Bella's  sake  you  will 
accept  all  that  my  friendship  offers." 

"  I  have  not  promised,"  she  began.  "  I  am  pledged 
to  nothing."  Even  now,  the  wounded  woman's  love 
and  pride  rose  up  for  war  within  her,  but  the  Poet  had 
no  further  fear. 

"  I  rely  on  something  nobler  than  your  pledge,"  he 
told  her. 

And  with  but  little  more  than  that,  this  fateful  inter- 
view drew  to  its  close.  To  pave  a  way  to  their  fare- 
wells and  make  leave-taking  more  easy,  they  put  on, 
both,  a  lighter  manner;  shed  all  tone  of  controversy. 
Their  conversation,  so  deep  in  the  middle,  thinned  away 
like  the  waters  of  a  lake  to  a  thin-lipped  transparency 
at  its  edge.  The  Poet's  departure  assumed  an  aspect 
superficially  prosaic.  ^ 

"  When  do  you  leave  Spathorpe?    In  the  morning? 

"  I  expect  so.    Yes.    The  train  goes  at  10  : 47." 
23 


346  BELLA 

"So   early?" 

"  Mr.  Pendlip  wants  to  catch  the  luncheon  train  at 
York." 

"  I  shall  still  be  in  my  dressing-gown." 

"  You  must  have  a  good  rest  in  the  morning.  I 
have  kept  you  up  a  frightful  long  time." 

"  I  suppose  I  shall  not  see  you  again  before  you 
go.  You  will  write  to  tell  me  of  your  safe  arrival." 

"  You  may  be  sure.  And  later,  I  shall  write — to 
touch  on  other  things." 

She  made  no  acknowledgment  of  that,  except  by  a 
smile  that  seemed  to  say :  "  Oh,  my  friend  Rupert !  You 
are  young.  You  are  sanguine." 

At  last  he  rose  to  go,  drawing  on  unaided  the  coat 
of  which  Mrs.  Dysart's  hand  had  so  imperiously 
divested  him.  Perhaps  she  thought  of  that  as  she 
watched  him,  for  there  was  something  like  a  smile — 
though  not  a  smile — that  flickered  in  her  eyes.  It 
turned  to  a  little  emotion  when  he  stood  before  her 
for  departure,  but  the  emotion  was  quickly  subdued. 
"  You  are  a  good  boy ! "  she  told  him,  with  the  mock 
seriousness  that  is  emotion's  refuge.  "  But  you  good 
men  make  life  very  hard  for  us  women.  I  would 
almost  like  to  kiss  you — but  I  think  I  won't.  And  be- 
sides— I  have  not  quite  forgiven  you.  My  pride  is 
injured.  It  is  humiliating  to  find  out  that  one's  good 
looks  are  inferior  to  a  man's  conscience.  I  am  cer- 
tainly not  so  attractive  as  I  thought  myself.  And  a 
woman  hates  to  be  made  a  saint  against  her  will.  But 
your  generosity  saves  you.  If  you  had  not  that,  your 
goodness  would  make  you  intolerable.  Good-by.  Stop ! 
After  all  I  think  I  may  venture  to  kiss  you — so  long 
as  I  do  it  piously,  here,  on  the  cheek."  And  then,  when 
she  had  done  that,  on  both  cheeks,  she  added  more 
hurriedly :  "  Don't  think  it  was  all  sin  and  heartless- 


BELLA  347 

ness,  Rupert.  It  wasn't.  I  did  care  for  you.  With  a 
little  encouragement  I  could  have  loved  you  miserably. 
And  I  could  have  taught  you  to  love  me,  too,  in  time, 
for  all  I'm  ten  years  older;  and  we  might  have  been 
most  wickedly  and  wretchedly  happy.  There,  I  will  not 
keep  you,  or  repentance  will  repent  of  itself." 

She  did  not  go  with  him  to  the  door.  The  Poet  let 
himself  out  into  the  morning  air  alone,  and  while  he 
walked  soberly  along  the  deserted  roadway  to  his 
rooms,  Mrs.  Dysart  very  quietly,  and  without  the  least 
fuss,  leaning  over  the  end  of  the  settee  on  which  she 
sat,  made  a  small  lace  handkerchief  damp  with  tears. 


XLVII 

AND  on  the  morrow — or  to  be  exact,  on  that  same 
morning,  later — Richard  Pendlip  received  a  letter 
inscribed  in  the  Poet's  hand.  It  did  not  surprise  the 
recipient;  it  only  pleated  his  mouth  more  grimly. 

"  Well,  well !  "  he  muttered  to  himself.  "  The  fool 
needn't  have  written.  I  know  well  enough  without." 
He  pressed  his  thumb  morosely  on  the  button  of  the 
electric  bell.  "  I'll  order  breakfast.  Let's  see  what  he 
says."  What  the  Poet  said  was  brief  and  so  little  true 
to  Pendlip's  expectation  that  he  had  to  read  the  two 
lines  twice  before  his  incredulous  understanding  could 
admit  the  sense  of  them.  "  Why !  Bless  me !  "  cried 
Pendlip.  "  He's  coming  after  all.  What'll  Rachel  say 
to  that!  I'll  send  her  a  wire.  No,  no,  I  won't.  I'll 
let  it  be  a  surprise  for  her."  And  the  white-faced 
waiter  addressed  a  rubicund  human  visage  instead  of  a 
thundercloud. 

With  each  moment  Pendlip's  self -opinion  grew. 
Surveying  last  night's  dinner  with  an  impartial  eye,  he 
began  to  find  very  little  fault  with  the  meal,  or  with  his 
handling  of  a  difficult  mission.  "  If  Ronsome  had  come 
himself,"  thought  he,  "  I  don't  believe  he  could  have 
done  it  better." 

His  tact,  properly  reviewed,  struck  him  as  excellent. 
Not  a  word  too  much,  not  a  word  too  little;  no  re- 
criminations; no  expostulations;  no  show  of  authority. 
As  for  his  fears  that  the  Poet  meant  to  play  him  false, 
why!  they  were  but  a  prudent  provision  against  the 

348 


BELLA  349 

remote  contingency  of  disappointment;  the  premiums 
paid  for  moral  insurance.  He  had  never  doubted  the 
boy  in  his  own  heart,  any  more  than  Rachel.  His 
bosom  rilled  and  overflowed  with  sententious  confi- 
dences, bursting  to  be  discharged  upon  the  Prodigal 
returned.  "Well,  well!  You've  done  the  right  thing, 
Rupert.  I  knew  you'd  show  up  honorably,  my  boy. 
Put  the  whole  thing  out  of  your  mind.  You'll  hear 
.no  more  about  it  from  us.  Try  and  forget  the  woman. 
You  ought  to  marry  and  settle  down." 

And  while  Richard  Pendlip  made  gratified  incursions 
upon  his  ham  and  eggs,  and  discerned  a  sudden  glory 
in  the  sunlight,  apostrophizing  the  day,  and  saying: 
"  Bless  my  life !  I  declare  it's  a  shame  to  be  going 
back  so  soon.  Let's  have  the  window  open  a  little 
wider.  What  a  splendid  place,  to  be  sure.  If  it  wasn't 
for  the  woman,  I  could  do  with  a  month  of  this." 

While  Richard  Pendlip  glowed  thus  with  the  spirit 
of  self-satisfaction  and  duty  nobly  done,  the  Poet  sat 
sideways  on  his  breakfast  chair,  with  his  coffee  and 
eggs  untasted,  and  administered  the  last  sacraments  of 
consolation  to  Bella  Dysart;  an  altered,  tearful  Bella 
who  hung  with  both  arms  about  his  neck,  and  could  not 
believe,  and  could  not  be  comforted. 

"  Oh,  Roo,  Roo,  Roo !  You're  not  going !  You're 
not  going  away,  are  you?  Mamma  says  you  are.  Mr. 
Herring  says  he's  packing  all  your  things  up.  Mrs. 
Herring's  making  out  your  bill  against  the  window 
downstairs,  with  her  spectacles  on.  It's  ever  so  long 
already.  And  Louisa's  gone  for  a  fresh  bottle  of  ink 
and  a  postage  stamp.  Oh,  no,  no.  You  can't  be  going. 
Tell  me  you're  not  going." 

"Come,  come!  Bella!"  he  told  her,  putting  a  kiss 
upon  the  beseeching  forehead  lifted  to  him. 
cry     It's  not  so  bad  as  that-it's  only  me  that's  going. 


350  BELLA 

Not  you.  And  besides,  it  isn't  fair  to  cry  like  that, 
for  I  don't  know  how  to  cry,  and  can't  join  you.  Men 
can't  cry  a  bit — any  more  than  they  can  sew.  They  can 
only  pull  faces,  Bella,  or  cough,  or  blow  tunes  on  their 
noses.  But  if  I  could !  O  my !  If  only  I  could.  Your 
cry  wouldn't  have  the  ghost  of  a  chance  against  mine. 
You'd  give  up  at  once,  and  listen  instead;  for  my  cry 
would  be  big  enough  for  both  of  us,  like  Sir  Henry's 
umbrella.  And,  after  all,  what's  the  use  of  crying?  It's 
no  use,  and  it's  no  ornament.  It  only  makes  one's  nose 
red,  and  one's  eyes;  and  wets  your  pocket-handkerchief 
and  my  waistcoat,  and  gives  me  cold.  Besides,  I  want 
to  talk  to  you,  Bella.  I've  got  heaps  of  things  to  tell, 
but  I  really  can't  while  you  are  weeping  like  that;  for 
all  the  time  I'm  looking  at  your  tears,  and  wondering 
if  they're  really  made  of  sea-water  as  some  scientists 
think;  and  calculating  which  will  run  down  your  cheek 
and  reach  the  carpet  or  my  waistcoat  first.  There! 
That's  another.  Right  on  my  knee,  like  a  hot  three- 
penny bit.  And  all  my  things  are  packed,  and  I've  no 
dry  clothes  to  put  on." 

"  Then  you  are  going !  "  Bella  broke  out  afresh. 
"  Oh,  Roo !  Oh,  Roo !  Then  you  are  going.  Say  you're 
not.  Tell  me  you're  not." 

"  But  you  wouldn't  have  me  tell  a  story,  Bella !  "  he 
remonstrated,  looking  with  smiling  pity  on  the  big 
round  tear  that  squeezed  its  slow  way — in  spite  of  the 
bitten  lip  and  nipped  nose  of  repression — onto  her  lashes 
for  a  silvery  fall.  Bella  subscribed  a  faltering  and 
hesitating  "  No — o ! " — but  she  was  at  that  stage  of 
trouble  when  moral  perspective  seems  all  awry,  and  truth 
and  falsehood  less  distant  from  each  other  than  in  hap- 
pier hours,  when  the  untempted  heart  has  leisure  to 
make  splendid  and  righteous  distinctions.  "  Why  are 
you  going  ?  Oh,  Roo !  Why  do  you  want  to  go  ?  " 


BELLA  351 

"  I  don't  want  to  go,  Bella." 

;'  Then  if  you  don't  want  to  go,  why  are  you  going? " 

"  For  the  same  reason,  Bella,  that  poor  pussie  went 
into  the  pork  pie.  Because  she  couldn't  help  herself. 
It's  all  in  the  way  of  business,  Bella.  And  you  know 
what  business  is,  don't  you?" 

Bella  uttered  a  quavering  "  Yes.  Mamma  says  busi- 
ness is  what  makes  gentlemen  miss  the  last  train.  Oh, 
Roo !  Let  it  make  you  miss  this  one.  Stop  another  day. 
Another  morning.  Another  hour.  You  don't  know 
how  wretched  I  am.  You  only  see  the  outside.  In- 
side it's  six,  no  ten,  no,  twenty  times  worse.  It  just 
feels  like  a  funeral,  Roo.  I've  never  been  to  one, 
though  I've  seen  lots  out  of  doors.  But  Louisa  has,  and 
she  says  everybody  was  crying,  and  nobody  could  bear 
to  look  at  anybody,  and  it  took  two  of  them  to  hold  her 
Aunt  up,  and  they  gave  her  a  pair  of  black  gloves  that 
weren't  her  size,  and  told  her  she  could  get  them 
changed  when  the  funeral  was  over,  only  she  split  the 
thumb.  Oh,  Roo!  If  you  were  me,  and  I  were  you, 
and  I  was  going,  and  you  were  left  behind,  I  couldn't 
go  away  like  this,  all  of  a  sudden.  Oh,  I  wouldn't.  In- 
deed I  wouldn't.  You  weren't  going  yesterday.  Why 
should  you  be  going  to-day?  Talk  to  me,  Roo.  Please! 
And  try  and  make  me  understand.  I'd  love  to  under- 
stand, and  know  what  I'm  crying  for.  Perhaps  I  should 
cry  easier  then.  I  can't  now  for  thinking  about  things." 

"  But  I'd  rather  you  didn't  understand,  Mother 
Hubbard,"  the  Poet  admonished  her  tenderly,  "and 
didn't  cry  at  all.  I  wish  I  didn't  understand  myself— 
and  I'm  not  sure  that  I  do. 

"Oh,  Bella !  "  he  exclaimed.    "  Business  is  business, 
and  understanding's  a  dreadful  thing.    So  long  as  you 
can    get    along    without    understanding— never    undei 
stand.     All  the  lawyers  will  tell  you  that,  and  charge 


352  BELLA 

you  for  it.  Everything  in  the  world  alters  when  once 
you  understand  it.  Everything  seems  to  go.  If  only 
one  could  understand  everything,  there  would  be  noth- 
ing, Bella,  and  that's  terrible.  Every  time  you  under- 
stand something,  you  lose  a  bit  of  yourself;  a  bit  of 
the  old  Bella.  And  soon  there  will  be  none  of  the  old 
Bella  left.  Only  an  understanding,  and  a  crying, 
knowledge  and  tears.  I'm  afraid  I'm  talking  parables, 
Bella.  You  know  what  a  parable  is,  don't  you  ?  " 

"Yes,"  said  Bella.  "The  Pilgrim's  Progress  and 
the  Prodigal  Son." 

"  Well,"  reflected  the  Poet.  "  The  Prodigal  Son  is 
one  of  them.  And  I'm  another.  And  I  think  you're  a 
third.  We're  all  prodigal  sons — and  daughters — for 
the  most  part ;  and  parables  to  other  people.  But  there's 
no  fatted  calf,  Bella,  for  those  who  are  prodigal  chil- 
dren and  parables  to  their  own  sorrowful  selves : 
prodigal  sons  and  daughters  who  come  back  to  the  home 
of  their  early  innocence,  and  find  it  closed  fast  against 
them  forever.  Oh,  Bella!  Never  stray  from  yourself. 
Keep  close  to  your  own  self  from  day  to  day  for  fear 
you  lose  yourself  and  understand,  and  come  back  when 
it's  too  late !  " 

And  Bella  promised  loyally  through  her  tears,  say- 
ing: "I  will.  I  will,  Roo.  I'll  keep  just  as  I  am.  I 
promise.  I  won't  change  a  bit.  I  won't  understand 
anything.  O  my !  " 

"  And  we'll  live  on  trust,  won't  we,  Bella.  You  shall 
trust  me,  and  I  will  trust  you,  and  we'll  both  trust 
mamma,  and  mamma  shall  trust  us  both,  and  we'll  all 
trust  one  another.  Trusting  is  ever  so  much  more  beau- 
tiful than  understanding.  Like  the  old  woman  at  the 
tuck  shop  at  school,  who  couldn't  read  and  couldn't 
write  but  trusted  to  our  honor  to  chalk  up  all  our  jam- 
puffs  and  shandygaffs  on  the  slate  behind  the  counter, 


BELLA 


353 


and  pay  for  them  on  allowance  day.  She  cried,  too, 
Bella,  when  I  left  school,  and  gave  me  a  bag  of  cheese- 
cakes to  eat  on  my  way  home,  and  told  me :  '  You're 
only  a  young  gentleman,  with  all  your  life  before  you; 
and  I'm  an  old  woman  that  has  to  count  my  days  very 
careful  now,  for  I  never  know  how  many  more  I'm 
likely  to  get.'  And  she  said  she'd  just  like  to  give 
me  a  kiss  for  luck  if  I'd  let  her,  and  as  there  was 
nobody  about,  I  stuck  my  face  over  the  counter  and 
said :  '  All  right.  Make  haste ! ' — and  she  gave  me  one 
and  said :  '  God  bless  you! ' ' 

"  But  you're  coming  back  again ! "  Bella  interposed, 
displaying  a  new  alarm.  "  Oh,  Roo !  Say  you  are.  Say 
you're  not  going  for  good." 

"  Why,  surely,  you  would  not  have  me  go  for  bad !  " 
the  Poet  taxed  her,  laughing  these  fresh  fears  aside. 
"  I  hope  it's  very  much  for  good,  or  be  sure  I  shouldn't 
go.  And  after  all,  what  is  there  so  dreadful  about  it, 
Bella?  Everybody  has  to  go,  a  little  sooner  or  a  little 
later.  Lots  of  people  have  gone  already.  The  Polli- 
wog's  gone,  though  you  never  cried  for  him.  And 
Summer's  going  too,  and  soon  Spathorpe  will  be  as 
silent  as  a  Sunday.  No  Parade.  No  bands.  No 
niggers.  No  nothing.  And  before  so  very  long,  a 
little  girl  called  Bella  Dysart  will  go  like  all  the  rest." 

"And  then  I  shall  see  you  again?"  she  broke  out, 
radiant  with  sudden  hope.  "Shall  I?  Oh,  Roo!  Shall 
we  all  see  each  other  again  ?  " 

"Very  likely,  Bella." 

"  Only  '  very  likely  ? '  Oh,  say  '  of  course,'  Roo.  Tell 
me :  '  Of  course  we  shall.'  " 

"  Well  then,  '  of  course  we  shall,'  Bella." 

"Soon?" 

"  Yes.     Soon." 

"  Very,  very  soon  ?  " 


354  BELLA 

"Very,  very  soon." 

"Where?     In  London?" 

"In  London,  Bella.     Yes,  I  think  so." 

She  clasped  his  neck  as  if  those  soft  arms  were 
turned  to  steel  of  a  sudden;  her  mouth  pressed  against 
his  cheek  was  screwed  as  hard  as  a  signet.  "  Oh,  Roo ! 
Oh,  Roo!  I  don't  care  how  soon  we  go  now.  I  don't 
want  to  stop  at  Spathorpe  any  longer.  I  hate  it.  No, 
I  don't  hate  it.  I  couldn't  hate  it.  I  love  it.  But 
everything's  different.  It's  almost  as  if  I  had  begun 
to  understand.  I  shall  never  go  on  the  Parade  again; 
or  on  the  pier;  or  up  to  the  Castle.  Never.  I  shall 
never  go  anywhere,  or  do  anything,  or  try  to  enjoy 
myself.  All  the  time  I  shall  be  thinking  about  you. 
Shall  you  be  thinking  about  me  ?  Oh,  say  you  will.  Say 
you  will ! " 

"  Indeed  I  will,  Bella.  And  I  will  write  some  more 
poetry  for  you." 

"Like  'Alfred  about  to  be  washed,'"  Bella  threw 
in  eagerly.  "  And  '  Poor  old  Mrs.  Cook '  and  '  Un- 
grateful Jane'?  Oh,  I  love  those.  And  will  you  make 
them  all  up  in  a  book  one  day,  as  you  said  you  would, 
and  print :  '  To  Bella '  on  the  front  page,  where  every- 
body can  see  it  ?  You  will  ?  Oh,  Roo !  Oh,  Roo !  And 
you'll  write  me  a  letter  as  soon  as  ever  you  get  home, 
and  put  heaps  of  love  and  kisses  at  the  end.  Will  you  ? 
You  will?  Oh,  Roo,  Roo!" 

"And  you  must  write  to  me  too,  Bella,"  the  Poet 
told  her.  "  You  know  how,  beautifully.  Put  your 
tongue  out,  and  curl  your  legs  tight,  and  breathe  like 
Bendigo  when  he's  asleep  under  the  sofa.  Never  mind 
a  bit  about  the  spelling.  I'm  not  going  to  read  your 
letters  aloud,  so  you  needn't  be  frightened.  Besides, 
ladies,  and  gentlemen  don't  spell  nowadays.  It's  fright- 


BELLA 


355 


fully  vulgar.  Spelling's  only  for  people  who  were 
brought  up  at  board  schools,  and  don't  know  any 
better.  And  don't  trouble  to  rule  any  lines  in  pencil 
to  begin  with.  Then  you  won't  run  off  them.  And 
drop  all  your  blots  onto  the  table-cloth  if  possible; 
they  make  letters  so  hard  to  read.  But  if  you  can't  hit 
the  table-cloth,  aim  for  the  carpet,  Bella— that's  ever 
so  much  bigger,  and  you  can  tread  the  blot  out  with 
your  foot.  Write  everything  you  can  remember,  and 
when  you  can  think  of  nothing  more  to  tell  me,  and 
you've  eaten  the  end  of  your  pen-holder  to  pieces,  seal 
up  the  letter  and  put  it  in  the  post.  Then  you'll  think 
of  a  lot.  You're  going  to  promise  me,  aren't  you, 
Bella?" 

"  Oh,  yes,  yes !  "  Bella  chanted,  with  the  fervor  that 
is  between  delight  and  sorrow.  "  I  promise,  Roo.  I 
promise.  Truly  and  faithfully.  Oh,  ask  me  to  promise 
ever  such  a  lot  more.  I  love  promising.  Don't  you  ? " 

And  so  the  last  grains  of  this  summer  gladness 
trickled  to  an  end.  Giovanni  Massarella,  that  prince 
of  mechanical  pianists,  drew  up  all  unheard  beneath  the 
Poet's  balcony,  and  nearly  broke  Bella's  heart  with  the 
sudden  music  of  departed  joys;  like  a  dead  name,  for 
the  first  time  uttered,  that  was  once  the  formula  for 
love  and  laughter,  and  is  now  become  a  sure  and  sacred 
recipe  for  tears.  Bella  ran  to  the  balcony,  all  blurred 
with  weeping  as  she  was,  and  paid  Massarella  his  salary 
into  the  area,  because  she  could  not  see  a  bit;  and  it 
took  Massarella's  comrade  a  tune  and  a  half  to  find 
where  the  sixpence  lay.  And  higher  up  the  Parade 
were  heard  the  niggers — who  would  be  here  very  shortly 
— pursued  by  their  customary  retinue  of  unprofitable 
wooden  spades  and  tin  buckets  and  butcher's  boys,  that 
had  encumbered  the  performance  three  times  already, 


356  BELLA 

and  were  intent  upon  a  fourth  while  the  big  dog  licked 
somebody's  beef  in  the  butcher-boy's  basket.  They 
went  out  upon  the  balcony,  these  two — that  structure 
of  dear  and  sentient  iron,  half  monument,  half  friend 
— and  shared  a  few  last  sacred  moments.  There  was 
not  a  single  spot  within  range  of  Bella's  mournful 
finger  from  which  she  did  not  cull  some  blessed  virtue 
of  sweet  remembrance  and  association,  distilled  into  the 
purest  of  tears.  All  Spathorpe  in  the  sunlight  seemed 
to  shed  a  sigh;  to  exhale  that  wondrous  sweetness  that 
comes  from  a  bruised  heart;  to  give  forth  its  best;  to 
reflect  Bella's  sorrow  with  a  countenance  of  heavenly 
tenderness  and  beauty.  Never  had  the  bay  shone  fairer, 
or  smiled  with  a  diviner  light.  Something  of  Sabbath 
sanctity  seemed  descended  from  above,  investing  the 
secular  bosom  of  the  place,  and  endowing  every-day  life 
with  spiritual  beauty.  Soon  the  band  would  burst  out 
upon  the  Parade;  the  turnstiles  would  chirrup;  frocks 
would  rustle.  The  Baron,  sneezing  in  the  strong  sun- 
light, would  wend  his  scented  way  to  the  terrace.  The 
Powder  Monkey,  new-puffed  and  fleeced,  would  swing 
her  jaunty  petticoats  across  the  bridge,  carrying  the 
familiar  volume  from  the  lending  library  that  had 
made  the  journey  so  many  times,  unread.  For  these 
and  others,  life  would  be  just  the  same.  For  the  Poet 
it  was  become  all  suddenly  a  deeper,  different  tincture, 
with  something  of  sadness ;  something  of  resignation ; 
something  of  courage;  something  of  unrest;  something 
of  tranquillity;  very  much  of  hope. 

And  when,  at  the  appointed  time,  the  Parade  should 
turn  its  eyes  to  look  for  him  upon  the  terrace,  he  would 
already  be  far  away,  thundering  along  the  rails  toward 
that  cherished  new-world  in  life  where  he  had  the 
vision  that  Bella  Dysart's  happiness  should  be  founded. 
And  only  the  girl  and  mother  would  remain;  the  one 


BELLA  357 

humid  of  eye  and  mournful  of  mouth ;  the  other  bright- 
eyed,  restless,  watchful  of  the  clock;  drawing  comfort 
•  from  her  clasped  daughter  under  semblance  of  impart- 
ing it,  and  consolation  from  the  lips  that  cried: 
"  Suppose " 


0) 


THE  END 


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